The Crossing
by YourDailyPrescription
Summary: The story of a young Frey and her adventures involving old powers, forgotten books, a loyal friend and her family's power struggles.
1. Chapter 1: Memories

The Crossing

Chapter One: Memories

When did this all begin?

Ilia shivered under her oversized black cloak. The goose bumps on her skin prickled painfully and her breath misted lightly in front of her. She could not huddle any closer to the fire without being either engulfed in flames or burning her arms. Somehow, the warmth from the flames was still not sufficient. She bundled the coarse fabric tighter to her chest.

At this time, she swiveled her head to survey the darkness, hoping beyond hope to see a familiar pair of yellow eyes. Alone in the trees, Ilia was hyper alert to the slightest of movements. Tonight, however, not a single creature was stirring on the ground, or above in the branches. The forest was deathly still.

Even if someone or… _something_… approached her, she would have no guarantee as to their allegiance or… friendliness. Ilia recalled overhearing two young maidens in the Water Tower gossiping about two handsome Northern men that had taken the girls into their beds during their brief visit. One soldier had told the pretty kitchen girl, Dahlia, that his party had seen wild direwolves in the woods of the north.

Direwolves. Ilia shivered at the thought of encountering such vicious and wild beasts. Without any company, she was only armed with her knowledge and a knife. She briefly considered climbing a tree, if the need arose. However, the numerous bands of soldiers, hill people, and refugees fleeing the South had hacked off all the lower hanging branches of the woods. Ilia also doubted her ability to climb high enough, or fast enough to escape a wild animal. Frightened, she leaned back on the large tree trunk and attempted to shrink further into the roots of the sentinel.

"Echo," Ilia called for the hundredth time that day. "Echo!"

Silence greeted her quiet calls. The pawprints by the banks of the river had led in this direction, but the trail she was tracking disappeared somewhere in the brush. With any luck, her beloved pet would be stalking somewhere close in the trees. The plentiful foliage and vegetation, unfortunately, had blocked her view and by dusk that evening she was forced to make camp in a small clearing. Truthfully, the clearing resembled a small hole more than anything else, but the dip in the land would hide most of the light from her fire.

Resting her head against the bark of a great evergreen that had needles instead of leaves, she closed her eyes. Ilia allowed herself to dream of home. She refused to think of the Crossing as it was now, a cold hold with cold men, hard faces, and tense conversations, but how it used to be when she was little. Her mother always made the windy stone towers feel warm and bright. Ilia remembered picking flowers along the riverbank, and listening to fairytales and ghost storied by a crackling fire. Where did the days go?

When did this all begin? Could any of this have been avoided? Were they all doomed to follow fate's path? Was there anything she could have done differently?

Lost in her ruminations, Ilia did not open her eyes. If she had, she would have seen the approaching figure in the darkness, it's shadow only illuminated by the light of her small fire. The dark, hulking form stepped closer and closer, while the lady remained unaware.

In her dreams, Ilia was lost to the real world.

* * *

"So the great timber was replaced by mortar and stone…"

Ilia and Arwyn were swaddled in a mess of soft blankets and plush cushions. Her mother's rooms were always adorned with lavish comforts that Ilia loved. Arwyn's tiny and deft fingers were carefully undoing the mass of braids sitting atop her sister's head. Ilia was cross between paying attention to her mother's fanciful stories and wincing in pain and irritation as another set of pains that were painfully lodged in her scalp, were pried free.

Today had been Stevron's, Lord Walder Frey's eldest son and heir to the Twins, fiftieth name day. At the age of ten and nine, Ilia and Arwyn were permitted to attend by their lord father. Though, both girls had been duly informed that one step out of line, and any inappropriate behavior, would result in their immediate expulsion from the festivities. Ilia desperately wanted to behave and earn her brother's approval. Stevron was one of her favorite siblings, and he often took the time to pat her dark head of hair, and listen to her day-to-day adventures in the keep. Stevron Frey was said to be a kinder, gentler, more courteous and amiable version of their father.

At dinner, she sat with her sister and mother at the high table with her numerous, rambunctious brothers and sisters. They at roasted duck and potatoes, and a fat pig could be seen slowly turning on a large spit at the hearth fire. Ilia was even given a small glass of wine from her bastard brother, Walder, who often doted upon her in small ways. Arwyn drank half of it for her, and the two sisters succumbed to giggling in their chairs sometime in the evening.

The Twins had seemed so warm and welcoming that day. At midnight, her and the other children were ushered to their rooms and the girls were faced with the difficult process of untying their overly complicated gowns, cleansing their faces of makeup and blush, washing, untangling their hair, and finally getting ready for bed. Luckily, Arwyn was more than happy to unpin Ilia's dark tresses, a task Ilia despised but her sister relished.

Her mother never explained her dark hair or high cheekbones. In fact, Ilia possessed very few of the Frey's greater known characteristics. Her hair was an obsidian black, and her facial features were much softer than her other siblings. She was, however, blessed with her mother's sparkling grey-silver eyes and petite nose. Ever since the midwife pulled her out of her mother's womb, her paternity was under question. The rumors swirled about her mother's relationship with Black Walder Frey, who had her dark hair and softer face. Yet, her lord father had legitimized Ilia, so any speculation on her parentage was never investigated and most rumors were put to rest.

That didn't mean she didn't wonder, or hear whispers. The stable master at the Southern Tower was said to have her hair and eyebrows. She used to sit on a bale of hay next to the rain barrels and watch him saddle and brush the lord's horses. Her mother put a stop to that after he sent her home one evening with a bouquet of wild flowers. Others claimed her mother had fallen prey to the King of the seven kingdoms during one brief trip to the capital.

When she was younger, Ilia would muse on that rumor often, wondering what it would be like to be a princess in King's Landing. Ilia put that notion to rest when she was seven, and Robert Baratheon and his two eldest children came to the Twins on their way from the North to the Riverlands. She looked nothing like the spoiled Prince Joffrey or his sweeter younger brother Tommen. The King was also a loud and obnoxious man with a strong inclination to drink… and an even strong inclination toward loose women. Besides, his hair was black and curly, and Ilia's was black and straight.

Black Walder remained the most obvious father, but Ilia remained unconvinced of anything. It was a comfort when her grandparents on her mother's side came to the Twins for the birth of their daughter's second son. Ilia discovered she strongly resembled her grandmother in both appearance and nature. If she was certain of anything, it was that she was her mother's child.

Ilia did not know, comforted as she had been that night, that Stevron's fiftieth birthday would be the last night she would see her mother. Did she dream that midnight visitor? The person swathed in black kissed her on the forehead and whispered a tearful goodbye. Was that real? Or, was it a figment of her imagination that would haunt her at night. Had her mind invented her mother's final words to her?

"I leave you my possessions."

The next day, she was filled with anger. She was angry with her father for drinking and smoking while the septa performed the funeral rights over her mother's dead body. She was angry with her older brother's for not shedding a tear, even though they had witnessed Walder Frey's last six wives perish in a similar manner.

"The chill most likely got to her," the holy man told Arwyn, when she could not stop her tears and was disturbing the rest of the funeral practitioners. Ilia never felt closer to her sister. At least someone remembered.

Except, Arwyn did not remember Annara Farring's final words, and Ilia did. Arwyn wouldn't talk about that night, so Ilia was left to wonder, and be angry.

Did her mother _know_ she was going to die?

Most of all, Ilia was angry at Annara Farring. If she had known, why didn't she try to save her own life? Why didn't she try to leave? Deep down, Ilia knew it would have been too difficult to take Ilia, Arwyn, Shirei, Wendel, Colmar, Waltyr and the infant Elmar with her. Even then, where would they go to live? Wouldn't her father have hunted them down?

Her last words to her eldest daughter weren't "I love you" or even "take care". They had been regarding her bloody books and dresses. What sort of mother does that? After everything they had been through? She abandoned Ilia and left her with a few measly possessions that barely meant anything to anyone.

Anger soon turned to grief, and grief turned to despair and depression. Ilia kept herself confined to her mother's old study in the library most days, running reverent hands over Annara's beautiful script. Her mother always had the most stunning calligraphy. Her father and other stepsiblings never came there, as they hardly even knew it existed, just as they hardly ever remember that her mother had existed.

A younger blond woman named Joyeuse Erenford soon replaced her mother. She was a nice woman, but the girl a disturbing age, only six years older than Ilia, and already fat with Walder Frey's twenty-third son. She cried during the wedding vows. Stevron hugged her and told her she could go to bed. She didn't leave her room for five days after that. The first time she left, Ilia went to her mother's old bedroom to pack her clothes and valuables. She strung a silver and sapphire necklace around her neck and sold the rest of the jewelry. The necklace had been her mother's favorite, from the Eastern city of Quarth, and she was loath to part with it. The necklace adorned Ilia's neck for every day after that. In times of trouble, she would touch it reverently.

Still, it was her mother's study that mystified her. Old tomes were stacked hazardously on top of one another in large piles that exceeded even her own height. Some books were in languages she had ever seen, illuminated manuscripts decorated the walls, and the journals of wonderers were scattered all throughout the room, with many bookmarks stuck in the pages. She found a curious set of correspondences between Annara Frey and the Lord Commander Mormont of the Night's Watch. He had apparently approved her mother's request for some twenty odd books from the crypts at Castle Black. Most of those books were ruined beyond repair and written in dead languages, but the ones she did understand were long detailed descriptions of the Children, and their worship of the old gods.

A year passed, and she began to clear the study of useless things. After dusting vigorously, and nearly slipping into unconsciousness from a brutal coughing fit, Ilia surveyed the library and knew that cleaning the study would be no easy task. How could her mother let it get to this state? She enlisted Arwyn's help, and together they began sweeping the shelves and organizing the clutter. Her mother's old oak desk was soon unearthed. The old wood groaned noisily as fifty pounds of weight was slowly lifted off of it. The first two desk drawers were full of quills, ink and yellowed parchment that crumbled at Ilia's touch. The third drawer had a nest of spiders so large, that Arwyn shrieked when it was opened, and Ilia was forced to vacate the room while Walder Rivers stomped the vermin to death.

The fourth and final drawer was locked. Ilia tried paying it open with a crowbar, but it didn't open. Secondly, she tried fitting a metal wire into the keyhole to unlock it, but had no such luck. She eventually left it alone when the septa came to collect her and Arwyn for their harp lessons.

The drawer remained locked for the next few years.


	2. Chapter 2: Echo

Chapter Two: Echo

The beast watched curiously as the girl in black slept. She tossed and turned, murmuring in her sleep. She was a strange thing, alone in the dark with no one to help her, and she smelled strongly of the river, and something spicy that sparked his memory. She smelled like the cat…

"Echo…" she whispered in the dark.

* * *

Her fifteenth name day was not an important enough occasion to warrant a celebration. Ilia ran around the two towers that day, visiting all her many relatives to receive their well wishes. She basked in the kind words and compliments on her newfound beauty immensely, but she enjoyed the attention the most. In a family with over thirty, close to forty children and grandchildren, it was almost impossible to receive anyone's undivided attention at one time, so Ilia took what she could get.

One of her brother's wives gave her some dresses from the South, and another older sister gave her some baubles and pretty things for her hair. Ilia did not own many articles of clothing, or any hair accessories, so she cherished these greatly and expressed her sincere gratitude. Stevron gave her a long knife with gilded flowers on the hilt. "Castle forged steel," he grinned as she excited swiped her knife through the air. She cried and hugged him.

Walder Rivers, the bastard, chased her down in the hallway to give her a silver bracelet, one of the spoils of a hunting expedition he had gone on. He blushed and stuttered as he closed the clasp around her wrist. He had been acting that way lately and it made her feel sad, but the septa had assured her it was a harmless infatuation that would pass with time. Ilia thought it was quite strange since they shared blood, but vowed to ignore it since Walder had been such a true and loyal friend for all her life.

Wendel handed her a small bag of coins at breakfast and blushed.

"I didn't know what to get you, so I thought you might purchase something yourself."

Her younger brother looked so bashful and repetitive, she could not help but to accept his gift with a smile and thank him kindly, vowing to purchase something frivolous and unnecessary. "Good," Wendel responded, and returned to shoveling eggs into his mouth. Later that day, she rode around the farmlands surrounding the Northern tower.

Colmar and Waltyr had joined her, sharing their own horse, as they trotted along the fields chatting gaily. Colmar liked to talk to anyone who would listen to him. He told Ilia how apologetic he was for not getting her a present today, but one of their larger nephews had taken his monthly allowance so he hoped a ride and some time together might be sufficient, and oh, how pretty her hair was today, and oh, how were her lessons with the harp? Had she opened the drawer in the study? Elmar was getting so big, do all children grow that fast? Was her eyesight suffering from so much reading? Did she think they would receive visitors soon? Was the summer ending?

Colmar continued like this for the duration of their ride. Waltyr would offer his thoughts sporadically, but spoke so quietly Ilia had to lean dangerously over her saddle to hear him. They took a basket full of food and lunched near the road. They rode along the banks and took a wide loop back to the keep when the sun started to set.

Dinner was not an extravagant affair. It rarely was. The Frey's did not believe in day-to-day frivolities, and Lord Walder Frey would not be bothered to waste his gold on silver plates or pewter goblets. Her family gathered in the great dining hall, as per usual, and sat themselves accordingly. Ilia and her siblings sat closer to the door, as they were the children of Lord Frey's seventh wife, and second to last in the line of succession. As such, their position at the table belied their importance to Lord Frey.

Ilia chose to wear the silky blue dress her sister in marriage gave to her that morning. She smoothed the fabric over her lab happily, while criticizing her reflection in her water glass. She wished, at that time, to have dark blue eyes, so they might match her dress. Nothing matched grey, except more grey, or black. Dinner had yet to be served and her stomach growled in anticipation. Colmar sat across from her, along with Walder Rivers, who had not stopped staring since she entered the hall. She sighed and grasped Arwyn's hand.

"When is the food coming?"

Ilia could tell the atmosphere was growing tense. Her lord father sat rigid with a displeased look on his face, speaking his complaints loudly to one of the kitchen staff, a man so fearful of the patriarch, he remained silent. Joyeuse was attempting to calm down her husband by stroking his arm, but he batted her hands away with a disgusted sneer, and pushed her away with a smack on her bottom. Affronted, his eighth wife turned to drown herself in a deep glass of white wine. It was going to be a long night, Ilia could tell.

The door to the hallway creaked open, and forty some odd heads looked up hopefully, expecting the cook's apologies. Instead, a young teenage boy stood awkwardly at the door. The boy bowed so deeply, and foolishly, his dirty blond hair managed to touch the floor.

"Yes, what's this? Speak!" Lord Frey was not amused, or in the mood to receive any news, so he eyed the boy suspiciously.

Looking closer, Ilia's interest was piqued. The boy's breeches were the standard soft brown leather of the South, but his tunic was embroidered with a sun and stars motif she had only ever seen in books. Obviously, this boy was from a long distance away, and not bearing any recognizable sigil. He could possibly have been from near Lannisport, judging from his lighter colored hair, but his mustache was twirled at the ends, something men practiced in the Dornish lands. From his neck, a fat gold chain dangled a large animal's canine tooth, which bounced on his stomach as he walked. He approached cautiously, accurately judging the mood of the room.

Closer now that he was, he caught Ilia's eye, and winked. She blushed and looked down into her glass of water. Gods, she hated that sort of attention. Shrinking into her seat, she listened to the conversation play out.

"My lords, my ladies," he grinned, and inclined his head toward the table. Joyeuse took another glass of wine from a servant. "I have the great honor of being the squire to Ser Essel, from the Dornish lands. I have come on behalf of him and his party to bid—"

"You _understand_ that you are intruding on me and mine." Lord Frey smiled a cruel smile and watched the man fidget. "You have come unannounced. You and your party have no doubt _delayed_ my dinner as so many servants might be needed to accommodate your numbers. You have made inappropriate gestures toward my young daughters, and your flouncing about has… _riled_ my temper." Her lord father tapped his fingers slowly on the wood of the table, listening to the sound echo in the silent chamber. "So you want me to open the portcullis to my keep? That's all anybody wants from me, isn't it? Isn't it?"

"There are never any visitors to the Twins, Charon. No, no, no visitors. There are no well-wishers, no knights. No one comes to simply see the marvel of the Twins. No caravans travel to spread their wealth and knowledge. No, no, no!"

He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the nearby plates and glass. Charon the squire had the good sense to blush and bow his head in shame. Ilia had heard this same speech from her father's lips many times. It was a secret delight of Walder Frey to shame and shun those who wished to use the bridge. The Crossing was the only stone structure that spanned the Green River, strategically placed by her ancestors so they could extort any travelers who needed to pass over the water. If they could not meet Lord Frey's price, they were left to either dare the tumultuous waters, or waste several weeks trudging along the banks trying to find safer passage.

There was none. Ilia's forefather's had known that when they build the Twins. The river was perilous, full of snapping jaw fish with razor sharp teeth that would tear the flesh off any unwary soul. The rocks were jagged and hidden, and would score and puncture the bottom of any boat, raft or ferry. Even if you could somehow survive the waters, the slopes of the river banks were built up and steep, and in the spring, full of sinking mud.

Most travelers choose to pay the fine. And, if the gold could not be found in their pockets, Lord Frey was not above accepting laborers into his service. They simply could not find enough to manage the two large towers and the Water Tower in between. So, that was how their house grew larger.

"My lord," the boy Charon continued, placing a repentant hand on his breast, "we have traveled long and far. We have with us spices, silk, and finer merchandise from the Eastern coast. Our harbor in Dorne boasts many fine qualities, and offers safe refuge to the merchants of the sea. If you wish to see…"

That was terribly clever, Ilia thought. Her father could never resist the temptation foreigners offered. He thought they were stupid, and would sell their wares for less than they were worth. Lord Frey leaned forward in his seat, beady eyes glistening.

"If you wish," the squire grew bolder, "we have a very well established group of entertainers with us. Free men and women from the East, traveling under a banner of peace to bring laughter and amazement to the people of the seven kingdoms in these… prosperous times."

He bowed again, his gold chain clinking against the metal of his belt loop. Entertainers? Oh gods. She hoped, ridiculously, that the Lord would remember that today was her name day.

"Women, you say?" Walder Frey grinned like a lecher. Joyeause Erenford took another generous gulp of wine. Ilia sat back in her seat, deflated that he had forgotten, but hopeful. Wendel looked fascinated by the man, and the mention of Eastern entertainers. She could hear him whispering excitedly to Colmar. The lamps flickered as every head in the room moved in unison toward the head of the table.

"Very well," a relieved sigh was heard around the hall, it seemed the boy Charon would keep his head, "but whatever you bring… If I point, it becomes mine. _That_ is our bargain for your safe passage. You tell that to your… Ser Essel. Bring your great merchandise and I'll give you food, drink and a bed for the night… granted he agrees to these terms."

Ilia's hunger had faded. The food tasted bland in comparison to the thought of seeing men and women from the East. She sipped her water sparingly and wondered what would come later. After the food was taken away, and the wine had been consumed (on the most part by Lord Walder Frey's wife), the parents, children and grandchildren convened in the larger hall of the Southern Tower.

The meeting hall was decorated sparsely, but boasted tall, richly colored stained glass windows, and deep blue crenellations were found wherever the walls met the ceiling. The tables were cleared to make way for the performance, and the squire Charon ran around like a madman spouting tales about the performers.

"… the pink lady's balancing act has been shown to the great kings and queens in Quarth!"

"… you will be amazed by the manipulations of fire…"

"…astounded by the mystic ways of Talos dur Haar!..."

Ilia sat next to Arwyn and held Elmar in her lap. As a toddler, he was captivated by Charon's smooth voice, and his eyes followed the squire back and forth as he spoke with her elder brothers. Stevron was having none of it, choosing instead to stare gloomily out the window at the rushing river.

The show began with fire dancers, two women and two men in scant clothing, who moved their bellies in a snakelike manner, and breathed sparks at the passing children. Lord Frey was pleased to see this. Ilia could not help but to stare, never having seen men without tunics or shirts covering their stomachs. She blushed horribly at the sight and looked away, focusing instead on Wendel and Colmar's excited voices.

The pink lady walked backwards, frontwards, and sideways on her hands. She contorted herself in ways so extreme that Ilia thought her bones would snap. At this too, she grimaced and looked away at this too. Imagining someone's bones snapping was not a pleasant experience and now that she thought it, she could not unthink it.

Talos dur Haar began his act by presenting the crowd with a large woven basket, covered in green silk. From his billowy gold sleeves he produced a long wooden flute, that Ilia was certain could not have possibly fit into his short sleeve. The oak was stained a color almost as dark as dur Haar's skin, and the white's of his eyes gleamed when he began his enchanting melody. The tune began with prolonged, dark, deep tones that reverberated uncomfortably in her chest. Every once and a while, when Ilia was sure the notes would resolve themselves, and the company slipped into an easy trance, dur Haar would play a pitch so jarring and discordant the crowd would jump, awakened. Ilia shivered and clutched her baby brother to her chest.

The notes ascended, and the dark man slowly began to sway back and forth. The basket, she noted with alarm, began to rattle, and three large snakes heads crept from the silk, followed by their muscled bodies. The snaked wriggled and danced to their master's melody, and Ilia found herself clapping along with her brother's when du Haar manipulated his pets into an image of the Twins, completed with a bump in the middle of the snake's back, representing the Water Tower. Talos Dur Haar's song reached one final, discordant note, before the flute, the snakes, and the tension disappeared with one final bow. Ilia noted with alarm, that the snake enchanter never blinked. Not once.

The fire dancers took the stage again. For the entertainer's finale the woven grass around their wrists and ankles were set ablaze, earning gasps from the women in the hall. Ilia was appalled, but she soon realized that their flesh was not burning. Some sort of magic must have been protecting their skin, she thought, amazed. Strangely, her throat constricted at the thought, and her heart beat twice as fast. She shook her head, dispelling any more fanciful thoughts, and gave Elmar to his wet nurse who waited to put the young lad to bed. Ilia stood.

A small cry, like one she had never heard before, stopped her in her steps. Ser Essel, the knight from Dorne, knelt down in front of her lord father with a bundle of blankets. Ser Essel was a good looking man, with a large linked chain for a belt, and a broad long sword strapped to his right side. His cloak was of the same make as gold cloak that Talos dur Haar wore. So he shimmered as he moved.

The cries that came from the blanket made her heart jerk and tremble, so she took several steps closer to see what Ser Essel was holding. Three spotted heads emerged and the mewling began again. Ilia's feet moved of their own volition. She stood one step below Ser Essel on her father's dais, and watched as the three small kittens crawled out of the blankets clumsily. They nuzzled and purred as Ser Essel's hands descended to stroke their fur.

Finally, one last cat emerged. He was smaller than the others and cried only once. Ilia knew instantly the cry of the cat instantly as the one that had stopped her from leaving the hall. She bent down slowly, so as not to alarm the kitten, and picked up the black ball. A pair of molten gold eyes met hers. She looked beseechingly at Lord Walder Frey.

Maybe it was the food, or the four horns of ale he had consumed. Maybe Lord Frey suddenly remembered that today was the day his only black haired daughter was born. Most likely, Walder Frey just wanted to demonstrate to these outsiders the power he wielded, as the Lord of the Crossing. In truth, he just wanted to wipe the smug, satisfied look of the handsome Ser Essel's face.

Lord Frey raised a gnarled hand, and pointed.


	3. Chapter 3: Fire

Chapter Three: Fire

At four months, the great black cat had grown to three times the size of the regular domestic cats Ilia knew from the stables. His face lengthened and grew, and developed angles and depressions for his large golden eyes. As a kitten, his cries would repeat themselves down the cavernous hallways of the Twins, so Ilia named him Echo.

Echo's fur was a fathomless black, unlike his spotted siblings. As a growing kitten, he enjoyed climbing the canopy of her bed and perching himself on door ledges and the stone parapets of the keep. Colmar and Wendel discovered the black kitten was nigh impossible to catch, but when left well enough alone, would approach you to bat at your hands playfully.

He was terribly mischievous. Often making sport of tripping her chambermaid when she came to fix her bed sheets. During breakfast, lunch and dinner Echo would sit under the long table, with his head in her lap, and beg for scraps. That was how she discovered his favorite meat was beef, and he did not enjoy any type of vegetable or grain, even if she wrapped it in meat. Whenever she did that, Echo would spit out the offensive food and look reproachfully at her from underneath the table. She never managed to outsmart him.

"Cats are the ultimate tricksters," the stable master, her once supposed father, told her. "You can't get anything past a cat. They're not like the hounds you've known. A cat sits and waits and watches. They know this from years of surviving in the wild. A cat's timing is impeccable."

To punctuate his point, Echo took that moment to punce on a small mouse. The bones crunched as Echo chewed, and Ilia saw the vermin slid down his gullet. He looked at the stable master appreciatively, and then returned to cleaning his already glistening coat.

"And vain as hell," he chuckled.

Ilia road again once Echo was big enough to accompany her. He would pad alongside her horse, quiet as a shadow. His graceful loping and arrogant strutting intimidated the few farmhands she saw, and kept unwanted visitors away. At night, Ilia would pry open Echo's already massive jaw and observe his growing canine teeth. It was an intimidating sight, to say the least. A clean bite could disembowel a fat man, she was certain.

At two months, his claws began to appear. Now, when he extended them on occasion to catch a wondering rat, or low flying bird, they appeared like five, long finger bones, curved and deadly.

Exactly one hundred and twenty days after her name day, and the arrival of Echo, Ilia and her pet sat in her mother's study as she thumbed through a particularly interesting set of instructions the First Men had written on how to dispel evil spirits, based on their observations of the Children. Echo was perched precariously on the windowsill, defying gravity by stalking left and right, batting at the passing seagulls and giving a tiny roar when his prey eluded him. Ilia would pet his tail whenever it would fall across her desk and onto her book. Echo had a very long tail, his only weakness. Just last week, Elmar had taken to grabbing it whenever the big cat opted to play. Echo was not pleased with this new development and had not returned to see the six-year-old year since.

The anniversary of her mother's death would be approaching soon. In a few months it would be five years since Annara Farring's soul transcended into another universe. The thought sobered her immensely, and she once again found herself in the study, pouring over her mother's footnotes. She decided to skip lunch today, choosing instead to build a small fire and read in one of the weathered armchairs she uncovered a few years ago, when she began the rigorous cleaning of the study.

The door creaked open, and Ilia looked up, smiling as Walder Rivers' curly mop of brown hair appeared. Echo bounded to the visitor excitedly and curled around her half brother's legs affectionately. Rivers bent down to pet the cat's head, and earned a few loud purrs.

"I thought I might find you here," he said, abandoning Echo to lounge in the adjacent armchair, "I didn't see you at midday."

He cocked his head at her curiously, "it's not like you to skip meals." His long legs stretched in front of him, making him appear giant-like in the small room. Ilia set down her book to give him her full attention. Echo came to lie next to her. He was tall enough now that she only had to move her hand to the right of the armrest to stroke his fur. Contented sounds filled the room.

"Reading her books," he waved a hand around the room, "surrounding yourself by her things… it's not going to bring her back, Ilia."

"I know that!" she broke eye contact to look at the fire. His words made her uncomfortable and she didn't want to breach this topic with him.

"I came," Walder Rivers cleared his throat and broke off. "The king is holding a tournament, in honor of the new hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. There's some gold in the prizes, and father has insisted several of us attend. We don't stand a chance against the knights of Highgarden, or the Kingslayer, but you know father, he doesn't like people to speak sense to him when he's got an idea in his head. Besides he says we need to go for the," here, he adopted the growly, low voice of Lord Frey, "glory of our house."

Ilia gave him a small smile and sighed. "When will you be leaving?"

"On the morrow. If we don't leave soon, we'll never make it on time for the jousting," Rivers licked his lips nervously, "Ilia… will you promise me something?"

She gave him an odd look; he was suddenly acting very serious. Walder Rivers' brow was crinkled in thought, and he was glaring gloomily at the fire.

"Anything," she said softly, concerned by his sudden change in behavior.

"Will you… will you promise me that you won't stay in this room while we're gone? I don't… well… I just don't think this place is healthy. Staying here, all alone…" he ran an aggravated hand over his face and shuddered, "people are starting to talk."

Ilia raised her eyebrows, and picked up her book again, turning to the page she had last read. Echo cried indignantly. "The staff are always talking, Rivers, you should know by now that it's better to ignore petty gossip. I don't bother myself with every passing rumor, and neither should you. You'll just end up in a ball of worry."

"Ever rumor starts from a grain of truth, Ilia," her half brother warned her, sounded older than his twenty plus years. "You spend most of your days here living the life of a hermit. You're skipping meals. You barely talk to Arwyn anymore and she feels hurt by your rebukes. You won't even talk to _me_ as much as you used to. Please, promise me you'll leave this room. Your brother's and sisters are still children and they need their older sister."

Ilia bowed her head. Abruptly, she felt overcome with shame. Her bastard brother had a stronger sense of responsibility and family than she did. He was right, of course. She had been neglecting Arwyn for too long… and poor Wendel, and Shirei! Her little sister was growing up fast and she was missing everything.

"I-I promise, I'll try," she cursed herself for stuttering.

Satisfied, Rivers stood and grasped her hands. Ilia was shocked at how warm his skin felt in comparison to hers. Was there really that much ice in her veins? He bent down and kissed her hair.

"I know you'll do the right thing," he whispered into her forehead and left abruptly. The door creaked close. Ilia glared down at the tome resting heavily on her lap. In a fit of self-loathing and shame, she hurled the book away from her, despising herself as she did it. The heavy object bounced off the old desk with a muted thump. A soft click and a raspy scraping sound followed.

Ilia looked up for a moment and thought her eyes were deceiving her. The fourth drawer had opened. Frantically, she stood, and in her panicked state she tangled her legs around each other and fell to the ground with an embarrassing crash. Echo licked her face lightly and mewed. He was mocking her, she could tell. Lifting her head from the floor, she saw the drawer was still ajar and sighed in relief.

Scrambling to her knees in an unladylike fashion, and crawling on all fours to get closer, Ilia's right hand eagerly grasped the drawer handle and pulled. The entire drawer and its contents came flying out of the oak desk, knocking into Ilia's stomach painfully. However, she couldn't have cared less about the bruises, because the fourth drawer was open.

Ilia peered at the meager contents. One large, old bound journal covered the top of the drawer, obscuring her view of the rest of its contents. She gingerly picked it up and opened to a page somewhere in the middle, her mother's handwriting decorated the pages and she wept for the joy of that discovery. She set the book aside tenderly, silently breaking her promise to Walder Rivers that she would not linger too long in this room while he was away.

"This changes everything," she whispered to herself quietly. For a moment, she almost believed herself, but the guilt and shame were still present in her belly.

Stuffed into the right side of the drawer was a rolled up bit of fabric. Her mother's cloak, she realized as she unfurled it in her lap. It was a deep black color with a silver and blue leaf pattern trailing the sleeves and hood. Ilia had only seen this shimmering fabric once before. Ser Essel and Talos dur Haar had worn it on her last name day. She folded the cloak and put it aside, next to the journal.

Next, from the drawer, she drew a small leather pouch. When she untied the bindings, a large multicolored pearl rolled onto her hand. It was warm to the touch, and its glassy surface reflected her tear stained face. She gasped and quickly put it away, wondering where her mother had acquired such a jewel. She placed the pearl on top of the cloak and picked up the last contents of the drawer.

_Ilia_ was written in Annara Farring's script on aged parchment. The letter was sealed with black wax, and stamped with the sigil of the Twins. It was dated one day before her mother's death, and she broke the seal without thought. Ilia devoured the words inside.

_My daughter Ilia,_

_When you were born and I first held you, I knew you had my spirit and ambition. I looked down on you for the first time and saw my own eyes staring back at me. I wish I could have been there, love, for all my children. I wanted to see you get married to some dashing young knight, and grow old with children of your own, somewhere far away from the Twins but my time with you has been cut dramatically short._

_Your father is growing tired of me. I no longer captivate his attention like I used to. It is a sad truth. He had has his fill of me and now it is time to say goodbye. _

_If you are truly your mother's daughter, than you have grieved for me long and hard. It is time to let me go Ilia, and understand these words._

_Tonight, my sacrifice for you will lead you down the path I always meant to travel. The path I spent years researching, holed up in this decrepit hole. For years I sought a power unattainable and distant. For myself, this path was not possible, but for you, Ilia, it now can be._

_It is time to let me go, Ilia, and understand these words. Only through death, will the words of my grimoire come to life. These are the words of the Children. And it is with uncertainty that I say my death might grant you the power to know one of these words. Choose wisely, use them wisely, and live wisely, as I did not._

Ilia sat clutching the paper. Her tears clouded her vision, preventing her from reading the letter again. Once more, her mother had cheated her, telling her everything and nothing. What should have given her comfort filled her with despair. These were not the words of love and encouragement she had expected. The letter was not even signed. Hours later, Arwyn found her asleep on the floor, clutching the grimoire.

Ilia learned her first word two months later.

Walder Rivers the bastard, and her older brothers returned from King's Landing and the tourney. They had stayed in the capital of the seven kingdoms much longer than Lord Frey instructed them to. No doubt, her brothers had taken the rare opportunity to explore the wilder side of life, outside of the Twins.

When she saw the approaching banners bearing the sigil of her house, she jumped from the windowsill of the study and propelled herself through the library, nearly sending the old Maester over the railing. "Careful, child!" he called out to her, fixing his strewn spectacles and sending her a reproachful look. Ilia knew the master as a simple man, content to live and leave well enough alone. He had tolerated Annara and Ilia's presence in the library for many years and as he grew older, would continue to do so, secretly glad that someone in the Crossing might notice if he dropped dead one day.

Running through the keep, she reached the stables in a flurry of blue robes and tousled black hair. Hosteen saw her first, giving her a one armed hug, and a light kiss on the forehead before inquiring as to the location of his wife and son. Emmon, Theo and Perwyn were all laughing raucously at an innapproprite bar joke that they refused to repeat to the lady's ears, no matter how much Ilia prodded them. Emmon ruffled her wind blown hair and accidentally entangled his silver sigil ring in her black mane. It took Theo, Perwyn and the stable boy to detangle it, while Ilia sat patiently on a hay bale. Emmon apologized profusely when his hand was free, and promised her a hair tie for her next birthday. Ilia waved him off, simply suggesting that it might be to his benefit if he removed his ring tonight before tending to his wife. Emmon informed her that wouldn't be necessary, as his wife actually brushed her hair. She smacked him on the arm.

Suddenly, Ilia was picked up off the ground from behind and spun. The stable blurred her vision until she found herself face to face with Walder Rivers.

"Rivers," she breathed, and embraced him. In the time he was gone, she missed her half brother more than she would care to admit. His absence from the study, and across from her in the dining hall left a hole in her life she didn't know he filled. His grin lifted her spirits, and she smiled a genuine smile when he let her down.

Later that evening, Ilia found herself in the study again, this time with her brother Colmar, Echo and Walder Rivers. Arwyn had intended on joining them, but was invited to spend the evening with her romantic interest, a young boy whose name always escaped Ilia. Rivers held her mother's letter from the fourth drawer in his hand, ruminating over the words and tapping his chin.

Colmar had been shown the letter a few weeks previous, and didn't care to reread it. He confessed to Ilia that the letter held not special significance to him. At the time of their mother's death, Colmar was too young to fully understand what was happening.

"I don't remember her face," he told her, "or her smell, or the sound of her voice. Beside," he handed her back the letter, "it's addressed to you…" He didn't say much more on the matter, which was entirely uncharacteristic of him. He did, however, become a permanent figure in the study when the Maester demanded the little lord begin to learn his history. Unknowingly, their relationship grew a little stronger. Colmar's relentless need for chatter was dying as he grew older and Ilia found his comments on the lore and history of Westeros to be both succinct, and insightful.

With trepidation, Ilia showed him the grimoire one day. He held the book gently and expressed his respect for their mother's diligent work. She had been thorough and descriptive in chronicling the words of the Children. Ilia asked Colmar if he had heard any of them before in his lessons with the Maester but he admitted that no, he had not and no, the Maester wouldn't have either.

So Ilia was left to wonder, and muse on her mother's words.

"I remember your mother well," Rivers said without preamble, and Ilia's thoughts were brought back to the present, "she was very pretty, like you. But she liked to think and dream her days and nights away, also like you. Father told me he met her in a tavern, where she was a traveling bard and brought her back to the Twins only after he managed to get her pregnant."

Ilia snorted. "That sounds like something he'd do." Echo growled in agreement, immediately taking her side on the topic. The large cat was splayed on the floor, basking in the warmth of the fire.

"I remember once," he continued, ignoring her jibe, "when I turned fifteen, she read me a story about the Children. It took place during the battle for control of Westeros. She told me they summoned a wall of fire to defend the first godswood from being destroyed. They children chanted all day and night, words of enchantment to maintain the wall, but eventually their tongues twisted from fatigue and their throats dried and constricted… so the wall was brought down, and the First Men invaded."

Ilia sat with her back to the window and flipped the grimoire open to the description of the words for fire.

"Fire, _feyr_," she read aloud, "According to the old texts, fire is the element of life and creativity. It is wild and passionate and the source of the world's power. Fire gives strength to the underpowered, and focus to the lost. Only a disciplined and controlled mind, combined with a strong will, can manipulate the eternal flame. An overindulgent and self-gratifying man would end the world in a blaze, and an overly cautious and uninventive man would freeze in the winter, and the flame of life would be extinguished. Fire is the light in the darkness and runs in the veins of every community."

"Hmph, your mother should have been a poet," Rivers mused and stoked the fire, "she had a way with words."

Ilia grabbed the silver candlestick from the shelves and placed it on the desk. "So…" she hesitated, "how do I do it? I mean… I've been trying for _weeks _now and I kept saying it over and over but…" Ilia threw her hands into the air. "I can't even get a spark, a light, a flicker… nothing!"

"Wait," Rivers stood, grabbing her hands. "You can't possibly believe in this nonsense, Ilia! Is _this_ what you've been doing all day?" He scoffed incredulously, "summoning fire?"

Rivers looked at Colmar for affirmation of his suspicions. Colmar nodded at him and shrugged his slender shoulders. "Ilia says the Children could do it."

"We don't have any proof the Children ever existed," he cried, exasperated. "Have you seen the _Children_ at the marketplace picking up bread? Have you? Has anyone seen them in the past several thousand years?" He waved the book in front of her eyes, speaking slowly and succinctly, "how do you know these aren't just old stories?"

Ilia gestured wildly around the room, angry with Rivers for not believing her. "Have you read all these accounts? Have _you,_ brother? Because I have. Why would all these men lie about what they had seen? How can so many stories coincide? It's even in the history books! How do you explain the godswood? The eyes in the trees!"

"You're basing this belief in… _sorcery_, because you've seen a few trees?" Rivers brought his hands to her face and gently turned her to face him.

"Be realistic, Ilia."

"This is my mother's work, Rivers. I can't just abandon it."

"Your mother's…" he released his hold and paced in front of her.

"Ilia, can't you see? Can't you see? This isn't your mother's work! This isn't your mother's legacy! It was her doom! She wasted away in this study! You may not remember what she was like when she first came to the Twins but I do. She was alive and bright and happy and a true woman. Then she discovered this room and these books and fell ever so slowly into a mad depression and isolation!"

"By the time she died she was _emaciated_ and _sick_, Ilia, sick!"

Ilia had never struck anyone before in her life. She had threatened once, with Wendel when he was very little. He had put saddle wax in Arwyn's hair and she threatened to smack him, but never followed through on the threat. Her hand stung from the impact on her half brother's cheek, and she cried out in surprise, partially from her own actions.

"Oh, gods," she gasped, "I'm sorry."

His cheek was red, and he put a trembling hand on the developing welt. Colmar was staring wide eyed, his lessons forgotten. Ilia looked at him, horrified to see he was still in the room. "C-Colmar, I'm so sorry."

Walder Rivers stormed from the room, violently grabbing his traveling cloak from the back of the armchair. He gently put a hand on Colmar's shoulder to say farewell, and left without another word. Colmar's head riveted between Ilia, who was crying now, and the door. His internal struggle was plainly written on his face.

"Go," Ilia bid, "you should get some sleep. It's late and we've stayed here too long already." She cleared her throat awkwardly, "check on him for me, will you?"

Uncomfortable with his sister's tears, Colmar nodded his head and put his things away. He made to leave, but stopped and turned at the door, his hand lingering on the handle.

"I think you can do it," Colmar confessed quietly.

Ilia was left alone. In time, the fire diminished and the embers of the hearth died, leaving her alone in the darkness. She thought about her mother… her face, her voice, the smell of her perfume, and the sight of her painting her face before dinner. Ilia remembered how prominently her ribs would show when she changed for bed, and how she would cry at night when she thought no one was listeninig. When she thought all her children had gone to bed.

Walder Rivers words were true, as they often were. For the first time in five years, Ilia accepted that Annara Farring had died, wholly and completely, and she was never coming back. Ilia stared at the candlestick on the desk, illuminated by the pale silver moonbeams. In the darkness of the study, Ilia choose her first word, bringing it to life with the power of her mother's death.

"_Feyr_," she whispered, and a light appeared. Ilia took the first step down the path her mother's selfishness had chosen.


	4. Chapter 4: Visitors of All Types

Chapter Four: Visitors of All Types

The sun's rays broke through the canopy of the forest, falling onto Ilia's crumpled sleeping form. Her eye's opened slowly, blinking away her lingering fatigue and focusing on the blurred green trees. Immediately, a sharp pain appeared in her lower back and she lurched forward. Looking backward, she realized she had fallen asleep directly on top of a large tree knot, and her muscles ached at the injustice. Rolling away from the tree and onto her side, she could only cry as she began to message the pain from her back.

Paw prints flooded her vision. Ilia scrambled to her feet, spinning around clumsily and unsheathing her knife. She didn't breath for fear that something might hear her. The woods were mostly quiet, a few morning birds had woken to sing their songs of daybreak, but nothing struck her as unusual. Her outer traveling cloak had fallen from her shoulders due to her earlier movements, and Ilia tossed it aside to better look at the tracks on the ground. She stooped and traced the markings in the dirt with her fingers.

The prints were too large to belong to Echo, and the fit wasn't right. These were not a cat's footsteps, but a rather big dog's… probably a wolf's. She placed her hand in the mud next to the print, and noted with alarm that the creature's paws were almost double the size of her hand.

_So chances are, I've got a wolf sniffing me at night. _She wondered why she was still alive.

A few feet away, the familiar prints she had been searching for were inscribed in the mud. "Echo!" she said aloud, and bent down to observe the trail. Echo's paw prints paced along the perimeter of the makeshift camp. Echo and this beast both must have been with her last night, while she was asleep. Why hadn't she woken up? Ilia knew she hadn't slept since leaving the Twins, so last night was a reprieve for her body and mind, but she couldn't believe that she had let Echo escape her again. And this other creature… what was it?

She was lucky to be alive, she knew. Ilia was not a hunter or a ranger by any means, but she possessed greater powers of observation than most women as a result of her years spent in the Twins, where observing her father's moods was a part of survival. Moving away from her sleeping spot and onto the top of a rotten log, she surveyed the area with critical eyes. Echo's imprints were closest to where she slept, and paced protectively in front of the small nook where she had slept. The larger prints of the unknown beast were not as numerous. Instead, it seemed the big dog merely came to sit and watch, as could be seen by the large indentation where its weight had once been placed. Then, the prints led away from her, further south… and Echo's prints followed.

Ilia had never been so grateful for the mud, which left an obvious trail in the direction Echo had gone. She quickly scattered the firewood from last night and broke her fast with some stale bread and dried jerky. She sheathed her knife and shook the dirt from her traveling cloak, throwing it over her shoulders to cover the finer cape she wore underneath, her mother's cloak from the study.

Ilia threw the larger hood over her head to obscure her face, and with a whispered "_feyr_" she conjured a flame in her right hand palm to comfort her. It wasn't a necessity, she knew, but the sight of a fire wielding, hooded witch of the wilds was more intimidating than a frightened, weather worn young lady. Ilia began to jog down the already fading trail, her cramps and fatigue forgotten.

* * *

It was Colmar who suggested practicing away from the Twins. He also insisted that the daytime was safer, since the light of any fire at night would attract immediate attention that they didn't want. About a mile downriver from the Crossing, a wall of large rocks and a dip in the land hid Ilia and Colmar from the Towers' view. This was probably a security detail that they should have brought to their father's attention. Colmar sat on one of the large smooth stones with their mother's grimoire propped up against his stomach, so Ilia could see the various forms drawn on the pages.

"No, no," Colmar looked from his sister to the page, "your hand needs to be _open_, with your palm facing outward, not fisted."

Echo sat on the riverbank, pouncing on fish and small turtles. At ten months old, his body was lean with muscles that rippled across his back and shoulders as he gracefully stalked his prey, the illusive salmon. With a roar of victory, he trapped his victim in his massive jaws and paddling out of the water, brought the wriggling fish to Ilia's feet. Ilia shrieked as the scales brushed her ankles and Echo cocked his head, utterly confused.

Sighing, she bent down to scratch his neck. "Sorry, Echo, I'm busy practicing, maybe we'll eat fish later?"

Understanding, the giant cat swallowed the fish whole, snapping his jaws as he engulfed the small morsel. Ilia resumed her stance, this time with open palms as Colmar instructed.

"Good, now move your palm in a circle, like this," he demonstrated.

Ilia did as he said, summoning a blaze that leapt from her palms to dance across the water. Echo cried out in frustration, as if to chide her for scaring the fish.

In the last several months since she had leaned the word _feyr_, Ilia had vowed to find time to master her new skill. The thought of conjuration excited her and fire consumed her in her dreams, never burning, always warming. During the day, she spent her time with Colmar, or in the study learning new technique, and at night, she conjured small flames onto candles and larger blazes into the hearth. She enjoyed the moments alone with Colmar the most, where he reviewed the more difficult material with her. Outside of Colmar, she had only revealed her newfound talent to Arwyn, who was still convinced it was a magician's trick, and of course, Walder Rivers.

Their argument had been intense, and they had argued again since then. Ilia was still ashamed at her actions, because she hadn't meant to hit him. When she came to him the next morning, her apology and their following conversation was forced and stilted. Desperate to repair their relationship, she risked his ultimate rejection by dragging him and Colmar into the study that afternoon. Ilia nervously handed her brothers the silver candlesticks and using all her focus, had brought the flames to life. Colmar excitedly dropped the candle and embraced her, babbling happily like he used to, and asking her a thousand questions.

Walder Rivers, thinking quickly, smothered the fire from Colmar's dropped candle with his boot. Pulling the siblings away from each other, he sat Ilia firmly in the chair and forcefully bid her to light and extinguish the candles repeatedly. After an hour of this rigorous testing, and after lighting the fire in the grate, Rivers finally seemed to concede his doubts. He leaned back in his seat with his fingers in a steeple, shaking his head lightly.

"I don't believe it," he murmured.

He came back the next day to lecture her on the seriousness of her situation. He stormed in, without preamble and proceeded to rant and rave in a fury she had never witnessed from him before.

"…you could _burn_ yourself, Ilia. Would you like scars for the rest of your life? Don't you remember the Hound? Sandor Clegane? His _brother_ did that to him. You could hurt Colmar or… Arwyn… or me. This tower could rise up in flames and you could suffocate from one wrong move!"

Seeing the book in her hand, he rudely yanked it away from her. Ilia yelped, startled, and Echo roared lightly at his actions, but Rivers eyes were wide, a vein in his neck was throbbing, and he growled in frustration, "there's no telling _what_ our father would do if he discovered this. The people in the Riverlands might execute you on the mere _suspicion_ of sorcery. They wouldn't need any proof. It would only take _one maid_ or one passing glance… and your head could end up on a pike! Have you any _idea_ what you're doing?"

"I've already made my choice," Ilia said softly, "I can't undo this."

"You're inexperience and young, Ilia. You could _kill_ someone and you're telling me you've _made your choice?_ That's stupid, you _always_ have a choice."

So, their second argument spiraled out of control. She said things she didn't mean, and so did he. Walder Rivers insisted that Ilia stop practicing immediately. He told her to return to the harp, or learn more needlework, or do anything but what she was doing.

"I am imploring you to do this," he begged her the next evening, when he had come back for more, "for your own wellbeing and safety."

Ilia refused again and again, and it took two weeks for Walder Rivers to revisit. This time, he came with an apology and a yellow rose, for her hair. He never asked her to quit practicing again, and she forgave him for yelling. Nonetheless, out of respect for her half brother, and for his peace of mind, Ilia never conjured a flame when he was present. Ilia choose instead to sip tea and talk to Rivers, or read quietly together in front of the hearth. He seemed to like these activities better, but stared suspiciously at the inferno every time.

Colmar could not stop his infectious grinning whenever he appeared in the study, and Ilia knew he was itching for more details. The day after her second argument with Rivers, he appeared, offering to become her tutor. Granted, he knew nothing about the subject, but insisted that two heads were better than one. Moreover, Ilia needed _someone_ around just in case she accidentally _did_ set anything on fire… like the curtains, or herself. Ilia could not argue that point. For their first session, and the subsequent sessions, Colmar wisely carried a water bucket.

"Good, now you need to work on this one," he pointed to a depiction on the right page of the grimoire he was holding out to her, "the wall of fire, like from the story Walder told. Don't you think that'd be amazing?"

Colmar waved his arms animatedly but Ilia placed her hands on her hips, a posture she normally adopted when she was displeased. Ilia loved the empowering and invigoration feeling practice with Colmar gave her, but her cotton tunic and breeches were sticky with sweat, and her arms were tired from holding them up all day.

"Oh, Colmar, not today, I think—"

Whatever she was about to say was cut short by the loud blare of horns. Echo scrambled out from the water and stood rigidly on all fours. He didn't seem to know what to do. Ilia dropped her palm of fire, losing all focus and turned to face the direction of the road. Through the tree, and beyond to the boglands, she could see the distant forms of a host on horseback… moving swiftly toward the Twins.

Alarmed, she ran quickly to the horses that were dancing nervously. Colmar followed, stuffing the grimoire in one of Ilia's saddlebags, and swung onto the back of his horse. Together they galloped back to the keep at breakneck speed, with Echo loping beside them.

When they arrived, the drawbridge was almost ready to be pulled up, but the guardsman recognized her in time, and they were given a few seconds to cross. The great iron gates slammed shut behind them as one of the horns sounded again. Echo roared his loudest roar in response. Ilia clamped her hands over her ears and pulled on the cat's leather collar.

"Quiet!" she hushed him and Colmar took her hand.

Instead of turning to run across the length of the bridge, toward their rooms, he pulled her into one of the nearby passageways and she gave him a look.

"You want to know what's going on, don't you?"

Colmar pushed her through a door and they found their way quickly to their father's meeting hall in the Northern Tower, where the rest of their relatives were already gathering. All together, they looked like a rather large pack of weasels, but Ilia would never admit that aloud. They stumbled ungracefully into the room, but fortunately, a heated argument was taking place, so no one paid them any mind.

Ilia and Colmar took a seat closer to the doors, and away from the eyes of the older Freys. They didn't want to be spotted and sent away. Ilia pushed Echo behind her to obscure him from view. She didn't want Lord Frey to see how big the cat had gotten, just in case he decided it was too much a liability to have him around. Ilia knew Echo was just a big kitten, but it was always smarter to avoid drawing her lord father's attention… especially now. It was safer to be a face in the crowd.

Echo understood the gesture to be quiet and he curled up close to her feet. She threw her mother's cloak over his body so only his head could be seen near her feet.

Emmon was the loudest and most argumentative. He was married and had children with a Lannister from Lannisport…his children were considered half Lannister! How could his father even consider this treachery? Theo and Tytos all argued for neutrality and caution, bidding their lord father do nothing but sit and wait for this storm to pass. Her bastard brother was actually speaking directly to Lord Frey, citing the crimes against humanity the Lannisters had committed against the people of the Riverlands. He urged their father to remember his vows and allegiance to the Tully's.

Stevron, and Perwyn were nowhere to be seen. Ilia twisted her head left and right, and by happenstance, looked out the window. From their high height, her eldest brother was moving with a line of men away from the Twins, toward the host. Perwyn was with him.

Wendel appeared next to her a moment later, with Waltyr attached to his hip, as per usual. She hadn't heard him approach, and jumped. "Do you know what the hell is going on here?" she whispered in his ear. Wendel nodded and beckoned her closer.

"I was here with Emmon when a messenger came from the boglands. Robb Stark's army made camp last night and they plan to cross from the North."

"What?!" Ilia shouted in alarm. Several annoyed heads turned. She blushed and lowered her voice.

"Why in the name of the seven do the Starks have an army?"

Wendel looked at her incredulously. "Where _have_ you been these last few months, sister? Don't you know what's occurred since King Robert's passing?"

Well, Ilia had been _busy_.

"The King's dead?" Ilia whispered in shock. She remembered the jovial fat man, his loud booming voice, and his large mouth downing horn after horn of her father's ale. She didn't know how to feel. At one time, she thought she might have been his bastard daughter, so she supposed she should feel sad.

"Oh gods," Wendel sighed, "women…"

Ilia felt slighted but didn't have time to correct her brother as he had already launched into a lengthy explanation of the Seven Kingdom's current political climate. "When the King died, it was assumed that Prince Joffrey would take the Iron Throne. However, the King's Hand, Eddard Stark, claimed at the same time to be the acting guardian of the kingdom until Prince Joffrey came of age. Queen Cersei objected and Joffrey had him executed for treason, rather publicly too, a rather poor decision that led the Stark family to call their banners against the Lannisters. Subsequently, Renly Baratheon, the Kings youngest brother, fled the capital and is in the South rallying his family's bannermen and calling himself King Renly. Meanwhile, Stannis Baratheon, the elder brother, has been rumored to be gathering his ships at Dragonstone. Stannis will most likely claim the throne in a few weeks time, after he's taken stock of his strengths. He has the better claim, as the older son, but he is not as well loved as Renly, and has the smallest army and the most... inconvenient location. Joffrey, oddly enough, still holds King's Landing… so _really_ he is the acting King. Strange."

Ilia stared at him. Men were crazed when it came to their games of war. Months ago, all seven kingdoms were at peace, and now everything was in shambles. Disappointment and dread clawed at her heart. "How did all this happen?"

Wendel shrugged nonchalantly. "It hasn't affected us yet because the Freys have remained neutral on the matter. However, if we give safe passage to the Starks, we'll clearly be seen as conspiring with the North. No doubt, we'll need to send our full forces with their army, to ensure their victory. Even then, we barely stand a chance against the superior forces of the Lannisters, and the capital combined. Father's already amassed all our spears, he's just been waiting for someone to come calling. Of course, if they can't meet the price," he smirked evilly, "we could always make them swim across. On the other hand, that'd anger the Tully's. Lord Edmure Tully already marched against the Lannisters in the South, but lost dramatically and is currently under capture at Riverrun. Then again… our loyalty is to Riverrun, and the people might revolt or the soldiers abandon their post if we do not defend their land and family. So you see…"

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't?"

"Precisely, sister, precisely," Wendel nodded.

"Silence," Lord Frey called, stamping his feet. A uniform clack could be heard in the hall as over twenty mouths snapped shut. The wind from the river whistled in the halls, lending a chill to the air. It grew colder as their father spoke.

"I don't want to hear another word from any of you! Not anyone! I'm not interested in your marriage, your children or your ludicrous ideals. I am the lord of this keep and the lord of this hall until I die. _My_ will if the will of this house and I will decide our course of action. I have ruled this bridge for over fifty years, and I know how to protects its investments so _sit down_ and shut up!"

Dark glances were shared between her brothers, but they took their seats accordingly. Joyeuse Erenford arrived in a fine grey gown and took one of Lord Frey's arms to support him. He allowed this, probably because he had been swaying on his unsteady feet. Her stepmother had been informed of the approaching crisis, and decided that if the Freys were going to war, she would at least look decent when it was decided. Ilia had never before seen Joyeuse with her hair and face done, and she looked remarkably pretty, but the scene was spoiled when her father snaked a knobby hand around her waist.

The door to the hall opened. Stevron and a few of her brothers escorted an older woman between then. Perwyn was mysteriously absent.

"Robb Stark is a _woman_?" Waltyr was flabbergasted. Ilia sighed in exasperation and Colmar kicked his brother in the shins. "That's not Robb Stark you idiot, it's his mother!"

"Catelyn Stark, formerly Tully," Wendel filled in the blanks, "the daughter of our liege lord in the Riverlands, Lord Hoster Tully. She was married to the King's Hand before Joffrey chopped his head off. They have two daughters in the capital, being held captive by the Queen."

Ilia nodded sagely, wondering how Wendel had the capacity to retain all this political knowledge. "You should write a book," Ilia commented. Wendel smirked in satisfaction. At that moment, he resembled their father in more ways than one.

"It is a great pleasure to see you again after so many years, my lord," Catelyn Stark said, with a respectful curtsy. Catelyn's voice was rich and smooth. It was a balm to her ears when compared to the hoarse and stilted speech the Frey men adopted. Unlike Joyeuse, Catelyn's words were not overly lathered with honey or sprinkled with sugar.

Her father responded with his typical tirade. What do you want? Sneer. Why have you come here? Sneer. What have you done for _me_? Sneer.

Lady Stark took it all in stride, never batting an eye. She must have remembered Lord Frey from her childhood, because she did not seem disturbed in the least by his appalling behavior.

"Father, you forget yourself. Lady Stark is here at your invitation."

Thank the gods for Stevron.

"Did I ask you? You aren't Lord Frey yet, not until I die. Do I look dead?"

Curse the gods for her father.

"This is no way to speak in front of our noble guest, father," Ryger stated softly, standing with his hands clasped next to Walder Rivers and the other bastards. They all nodded in agreement.

"I'll speak any way I like, damn you," Lord Frey said smartly, "I've had three kings to guest in my life, and queens as well, do you think I require lessons from the likes of you, Ryger? Your mother was milking goats the first time I gave her my seed."

Deeply insulted, Ryger clenched his fists and Walder Rivers laid a firm hand on his elbow, silently showing his support. Rygel's mother was actually still alive, still milking those goats. They broke bread over supper every week. Rygel loved his mother and his mother loved him, a fact that Lord Frey knew well, and often used to his advantage. Satisfied that Rygel's mouth was silenced for the evening, Lord Frey held out his arms.

"Danwell, Whalen, help me to my chair."

It isn't your chair! Ilia thought spitefully, it should be Stevron's. Ilia's great grandfather had commissioned the High Seat of the Frey House to be wrought out of a black oak tree that had fallen into the Green Fork and got caught on the stone supports of the Crossing. The high back was made in the image of the Twins connected by a bridge. Sitting with a flop, Lord Frey kissed Lady Catelyn's hand lightly, or mockingly, she couldn't be certain because his facial expression was out of her sight.

"There, now that I have observed the courtesies my lady, perhaps my sons will do me the honor of shutting their mouths," he raised a crooked eyebrow at the room, and it landed sharply on Lady Catelyn. "Why are you here?"

Lord Frey knew fully well why she was here. "To ask you to open your gates, my lord. My son and his bannermen are most anxious to cross and be on their way."

"To Riverrun?"

Lady Stark confirmed their destination. In turn, Walder Frey smugly informed her that he too, had assembled his strength at the Twins. He too, had swords and spear and he too, had the full intention of sending his sons to the aid of Lord Tully and to Riverrun. "That her that was my intent," he pointed abruptly at Jared.

Ser Jared, caught unaware, bowed, but did not meet the lady's eyes. "It was, my lady, on my honor." He said the words in a droll monotone, and Lady Catelyn could not have doubted their insincerity.

"Is it my fault your fool brother lost his battle before we could march?"

Ilia winced. Surprisingly, the lady maintained her cool, polite demeanor. Walder Rivers had once told her that a traveling knight from Highgarden had chucked a canteen at her father's head. Looking around, there weren't any canteens nearby. A pity.

"All the more reason we must reach Riverrun, and soon," the Lady pressed softly, "where can we go to talk, my lord?"

Walder Frey snorted and turned an evil eye to the congregation. "We're talking now. What are you all looking at? Get out of here! Lady Stark wants to speak with me in private, might be she has designs on my fidelity."

Lord Frey found himself terribly funny, and cackled as his words sent the rest of the room into rushed disarray. Wendel and Waltyr disappeared into a servants corridor Ilia had never seen before, and thought that that must have been how Wendel snuck into the meeting hall. Colmar grabbed her hands and they marched with a group of their brothers and sisters, results of Lord Frey's sixth wife. In the courtyard below, the drawbridge was now down. From her viewpoint, Ilia could see distant white banner and a blurred form at the head of the column who she assumed was Robb Stark.

Arwyn ran to her side dressed in an impractical rose colored gown and being trailed by her fair haired love interest, Perthos… Porthos… Pencel… something like that. Arwyn had to place a dainty hand on her chest to catch her breath before speaking. Ilia looked at her concerned, "you need to run more, Arwyn."

Arwyn paid her comment no mind, but the boy knight gave her a queer look. Colmar jumped into a brief explanation of what occurred in the hall of the High Seat of the Freys. Arwyn looked greatly disturbed and place a loving hand on her knight's cheek. Chances were, the knight's orders would be to depart with the other soldiers. In fact, as they spoke, he brothers were already suiting themselves in their mail and boiled leather, and the forces of the Twins were marshaling on the southwestern bank of the Green Fork.

"So, we are currently awaiting father's decision," Colmar finished, he was flushed with excitement. Arwyn smiled indulgingly at him.

The knight touched her shoulder lightly, and they shared a look between them. Ilia bit her lip in annoyance, knowing her sister, and distracted Colmar briefly to give the couple a small reprieve from their eyes. She pointed out a seagull and crow fighting over a piece of bread that fascinated him morbidly for a few minutes. Moments later, Arwyn's lips and eyes were red, and the knight was gone. Her sister sniffled and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief she summoned from her bosom. Sometime, Ilia wondered about her sister.

Less than an hour later, a weary Lady Stark appeared, accompanied by her father. Lord Frey looked like a dog who had been let loose in the kitchen larder. He smiled lecherously at the sky, praising the grace of the gods and naming several of his sons and grandsons to the Lady.

Then, Ilia experienced the most terrifying moment of her life to date as Lord Frey extended two fingers to point at Ilia and Arwyn. He crooked his fingers to beckon them closer and Arwyn clutched her hand fearfully. Ilia clenched her jaw and internally vowed to speak on Arwyn's behalf, considering her current state. Ilia tried to kick Echo away before her father or Lord Frey could see him, but it was too late and he materialized by her side as they curtsied. Her father ignored the beast, but Lady Catelyn's eyes widened.

"Yes, yes, I knew I had at least two of them at the right age," their father chuckled, "unless he prefers the older variety. These are the prettiest as you can see. This one," he grabbed Ilia's chin roughly and turned her face left and right, "is the most beautiful. Nice face, good figure. I've been saving her for a special arrangement such as this. Seems like the right occasion. However, this beast," he jerked a thumb toward Echo, "follows her around like a lost kitten. Dreadful nuisance, roaring all the time… but I haven't seen a single rat since he arrive and none of the birds dare fly too low and shit on the bridge anymore. Hasn't killed anyone either… yet. Of course your son probably doesn't want the liability but I'm sure we could have the cat killed if he likes her face…"

Ilia gave herself whiplash. Had he really suggested? Was she being _marketed_ to Lady Stark? What the hell was he saying? Echo pushed his head against her hand, and she looked into his amber eyes. No, that would not happen.

Lord Frey grabbed Arwyn's chin and forced her to look up, her face was still blotchy and marred with fresh tears. "This one is more of a lady. Sensitive too, see. She would be a good mother. Not as pretty as the other one, certainly, but the cat wouldn't be an issue and she is much more agreeable—"

"No!" Arwyn shuddered and gaped at her. What in the name of gods, old and new had possessed her to interrupt her father?

"See what I mean?" he ignored her, "the pink one is _much_ more agreeable and knows not to _speak unless spoken to_."

Ilia pulled Arwyn back and moved to stand in front of her, thinking about her sister's ridiculous relationship with the youthful knight. Her father gave her a scathing look.

"No, no… Arwyn is too…. Delicate… she would never…" Ilia grasped at threads in her mind. The Lady Catelyn was looking at her with vague interest and Ilia chose instead to look into her eyes. She would have to face retribution from her father later, but maybe this woman would listen to her.

Catelyn Stark had obviously been very beautiful in her youth. Even as a aging woman, her hair was the shiny and lustrous color of the Tully House. She had fair, clear skin and rounded, high cheekbones. Her clothes were practical, and her dress was travel worn at the bottom. Her hands were clasped and she wore brown riding gloves that had seen better days. Ilia decided to appeal to her practicality.

"Arwyn is agreeable, yes… but young, and very sensitive," Ilia said delicately, "but she would never survive the harsh cold in Winterfell, and the conversion from the new gods to the old. I've heard the septons saying the summer is ending and… and winter is quickly approaching. My sister is much better suited to the South, my lady," she swallowed dryly and cursed the world violently before continuing, "and… the c-cat is fully under control and not a liability. I assure you. If he would become one… I-I would take care of the issue."

"Oh, shut up girl," he roughly shoved her aside to reveal a now sobbing Arwyn. "I swear I'm going to start sewing their mouths shut when they slide out of the womb. They're constantly spouting nonsense, especially the women. Listen here, girl, the Lord will choose _whoever he damn well likes._" Echo observed the scene confused, because Ilia kept a hand on his fur to keep him from moving.

"Thank you for showing your daughters to me, Lord Frey… it has been most informative," her eyes lingered on the cat. Stevron, Ser Jared, Ser Hosteen, Danwell and Ronel all appeared with the clattering of hooves. Olyvar was the only one on foot, and he was leading Lady Catelyn's brown mare. He knelt down to prop her foot, so she could mount easily.

Her brothers looked resplendent in the blue steel ring mail and silver cloaks. The banner bearing the sigil of their house caught the wind, creating a magnificent image. They rode beyond the drawbridge, never looking back at the family they were leaving behind. Echo cried painfully. Soon, the host of Robb Stark's army descended upon them. The young Lord Stark led the column with his banner men, but by that time Ilia had already been dragged away by her father.


	5. Chapter 5: Escape

Chapter Five: Escape

The woodlands, the mud and her trail ended. The trees gave way to the sloping plains of the Riverlands, where green, yellow grass grew past her knees. The woods continued to the East, but she faced plains for the next several days. The grass came with an abundance of insect life. Sharp thistle weeds pricked her while she walked and large flying insects swooped near her face, unafraid. Occasionally, the grass would break and wildflowers would grow. Ilia feared the beauty of the flowers because stingers created their nests there. If she accidentally stepped on a bee's hive, she might as well have pricked herself with a thousand knives.

There was no way to be certain how many days have passed since the trail went cold. She woke, night and day, to travel, and couldn't be sure how long she slept. Nightmares haunted her at night. In her dreams, she sat on the High Seat of the Frey's and called her brothers and sisters to kneel before her. A beautiful blond woman of her age, in straw clothing, whispered in her ear, treacherous things they had said and done. Every time, she turned to the fair lady and asked pitifully, "what should be done?"

_Burn them all, burn them. Burn them all, burn them._ Her unmoving mouth whispered. When she raised her hands to do so, she could not look away as flesh and blood turned to ash. Ilia always woke in a cold sweat. Curling in a tight ball, she cried and screamed, "Echo! Echo! Echo!"

Alone in the wilderness, nature gave her cruel responses. Bugs ate at her exposed flesh and sucked her blood. If Ilia scratched at the bites, the skin would swell and break, so she took to crying instead of scratching. Alone, she felt no shame in that weakness. The blisters on her feet bled, scabbed, healed, bled, scabbed, healed and on and on, forcing her to rub her aching feet at night. A fox tried to steal her food when she nursed her feet and she had to spit fire to protect her satchel and its precious contents. Then the grass caught fire and she had to run all through the night. It rained the next morning, and she hoped the fire had died and she hadn't hurt anyone, or ruined any nearby crops or mills.

The rain soaked her to the bones. She knew the word for water… _Ak._ A simply, satisfyingly brusque word she enjoyed saying. She knew the word and had felt it briefly, but without time to master the forms in the grimoire she could not wield that power. Fire was her only option, and it flickered and died in the rain.

Every hour she imagined herself collapsing on the ground and willing her body to just _die already_. But she had to go on, because she had to find Echo. Her voice was sore and froglike by the third day, but she called for him regardless. On the second day, she found a dead raccoon with its belly slashed and bowels spilling out, but she could not discern if this was Echo's work, or the big dog's.

Her food stash was depleting, and quickly. Rationing a few more strips of beef would only take her so far. Ilia needed to find a town or village soon, but fear gripped her at the prospect. Women were not safe to travel alone. Rape, slavery, and physical harm was a very real possibility in a town.

Which begged the question, where would she be safe? Where was she going? What was she going to do? Who would help her? Feed her? She didn't have a trade, and women without family or skill became whores in brothels. Part of her hoped that she would run into Robb Stark's army and her brothers. They would listen to her story and take her side, they would find Arwyn, and they would take care of her because she was family. Your family protects you. Ilia had to believe that.

_Look what your family has done. Look where they have taken you. _Walder Rivers sneering voice filled her heads with doubts.

Lying down on the ground, steeling her will for whatever tomorrow might bring. Ilia shivered and cried in the cold and wet. Not caring anymore. Only the gods, old and new, could hear her now. Her eyes closed and she wished death might take her.

* * *

"You stupid girl!" Walder Frey raged and pulled on her arm with the strength born of ten demons. His old age did not seem to be affecting his vigor in the least. When they reached the empty hall, he threw her roughly on the cold floor. The skin of her palms scraped on the stone. The door closed behind them. Two guards grabbed Echo by the hindquarters and threw him back into the hall. He scratched and roared at the Iron but it would not yield.

A gnarled hand yanked her to her knees. The harsh slap echoed in the hall when his hand struck her face.

"You do not speak to me."

He slapped her across the other cheek, and her vision spun from the impact.

"You do not question me."

Lord Frey used a foot to push her on her back. She was sprawled on the ground, and he smacked his walking staff across her lower back.

"… and you will _not_ keep that fucking cat."

Lord Frey finished his work with a growl and stomped away, leaving Ilia in the hall to tremble. She did not lift her head from the floor until minutes after the door slammed shut, wanting to be certain that her father would not be returning. Hesitantly and stiffly, Ilia pushed away from the floor, crying out when a spasm took her back. A hand appeared before her, and in her distraught and weakened state, she took it. The stranger enfolded her in a warm blue wool blanket and rocked back and forth as she cried. Sometime later, Echo crawled in through a window and pounced, roaring, only to find the room empty save for the two weeping women.

Joyeuse Erenford gently wiped away the tears, and a little blood from her split lip. Ilia nodded her thanks mutely. Next, her step-mother handed her a bronze flask. Ilia took a sip. A dark beer. She swallowed three large gulps and handed it back to Joyeause. The lady discreetly tucked it in the back of her belts, so it was hidden in the folds of her skirts.

"Come on," she said. "They might return to the hall. Better to be out of sight when he's in a fit, he'll calm down with time."

Ilia thought that couldn't be true, because her father hadn't calmed down in eighty years. The grey woman led her across the bridge, and into her bed. The covers were tucked up to her chin. When she bent down, her dirty blond hair fell on Ilia's face and smelled like perfume, ale, and pig broth. Echo prowled near the door, fighting his violent desire for revenge.

Hours later she woke. The sun had set and the moon hung high in the sky, almost full. Clouds of grey rolled past the Twins, moving South. There would be rain in the Riverlands. Echo had fallen asleep under her bed. When he heard her stirring, he crawled onto the covers and nuzzled her leg. Someone was pounding noisily on the door and Ilia blearily blinked at the intrusion. Stumbling to the door, the day's events flashed through her mind. Raising a shaking hand, she couldn't bring herself to unlatch the door.

"Declare yourself!"

"It's me," Arwyn cried beyond the wood. "Open the door, I need to talk to you!"

Ilia quickly let her in, slamming and bolting the door behind her. Echo jumped from the bed and began to purr. Arwyn knew exactly where to scratch his ears.

"Gods, what happened to your face?" she cried. "Oh, _he_ did that didn't he? I knew you shouldn't have spoken back to him. That was so foolish, Ilia."

Ilia crossed to her mirror and surveyed the damage. The split lip had clotted and was the most noticeable imperfection. Her left eye was a little swollen but it would heal quickly. Her back, on the other hand, felt tight and sore. She gingerly unbuckled and lifted her shirt. Three red welts streaked across her back, where her father's cane had struck. Arwyn looked disgusted at the scores.

"I hope nothing scars, you _are_ the prettier one," she callously drew the shirt down and began opening Ilia's bedroom drawers to sift through the contents.

"What are you doing?" Ilia asked confused, as she started throwing random objects into a brown satchel. Looking at her sister, she was dressed entirely out of character. Her brown hair was drawn into a severe knot, and she wore one of Wendel's old blue shirts, with a pair of her old breeches.

"Leaving." Arwyn shoved some bandages in the bag. "I've decided to follow Ser Perry and the other men. Don't try to talk me out of it, Ilia. I've made up my mind and you can't stop me. Women follow armies all the time, in this day and age. Ser Perry will take care of me and we can get married in the Sept when the Starks take Riverrun."

"That's insane, and you know it, Arwyn. What if we lose the war?"

"We won't, otherwise father would not have sent our brothers South. He never makes a decision without thinking it over several hundred times, Ilia."

Arwyn took a deep breath and closed her eyes, swinging the satchel onto her shoulder. "There's another thing."

"What?" Ilia raised her eyebrows.

"I want you to come with me, sister. I know we've never been particularly close… not since before our mother died, but your notion to protect Perry and I did not escape me earlier and I am no fool. I know trust and loyalty are hard to find… and," she waved her hand in the air, "your magicians trick will keep us warm at night. Maybe we could find someone to teach you more tricks if we travel with Ser Perry to Lannisport, or the Capital! Besides, neither of us wants to stay here and get married to that Robb Stark lunatic. Echo will protect us at night, and we could sell him at the market if we ran out of money."

Echo growled deep in the back of his throat and Arwyn jumped, raising her hands in submission.

"Alright, alright, or not. Oh, don't look at me like that Ilia. It will be _grand_, just me, you, Echo, and Perry on the road. We can take our mother's name, Farring. Can you imagine? Annara Farring's beautiful daughters, we'll travel from town to town and men will _beg_ for your hand in marriage, Ilia."

"Ser Perry is knight of the Riverlands," Ilia reminded her, "he is sworn to protect and defend these lands."

Arwyn shrugged. "He's a knight, he'll find a new lord to swear allegiance to."

Ilia doubted that and she doubted the faith and fidelity of the young, and pretty Ser Perry. Arwyn was her sister though, and family was family. She couldn't let any ill befall her little sister. It was her responsibility to take care of her, and she had been neglecting her duty in the past. She remembered the argument betwixt her and Walder Rivers.

"If I do not go with you, will you insist on going alone?"

"Yes," Arwyn had her, "I would go alone."

"Well… give me an hour to pack my things. We'll leave tonight while the drawbridge is still down."

Ilia never thought this day would come. It was so similar and yet so different from her mother's departure. She stood over Colmar's sleeping form and bent down to kiss his forehead. He smelled like home. Ilia whispered what her mother would not.

"I love you." She pulled the hood over her head and left. The sun would rise in a few hours, and they didn't have the time to linger. She did not dare say farewell to all of her beloved relatives, numerous as they were. Instead, she visited her closest blood. Wendel, Colmar, Shirei and Elmar had been sleeping sweetly in their beds. She preferred it that way. Ilia could not tolerate looking in their eyes and explaining her actions… and the explanation would not be sufficient. How could she protect one sibling and abandon four others? She could not field Colmar's thousand questions about her intent. They could not glimpse her face without knowing the punishment for speaking against Lord Frey.

Walder Rivers was not in his bed, and she didn't have the time to find him. If he was awake, it was better to avoid him. He would convince her to stay.

So, she ran like a coward. A real hero would have burned her father in the hall of the High Seat. She should have done it yesterday, when there were no witnesses. Robes, flesh, bone and cane should have been reduced to ash, and they would all be free. Stevron would finally have his seat.

Meeting Arwyn at the stables, she secured her possessions to her horse. Her saddlebag contained, among other things, food, the grimoire, the large pearl, and a spare change of clothes. Ilia strapped the knife Stevron had given to her onto her black leather belt. The stable master woke with the sound of hooves but paused, seeing Ilia's face. Considering her anxiety, insomnia, split lip, and swollen eye, she must have looked frightful.

"You know," he said, " you used to sit on that bale of hay o'er there, and watch me work. I knew the rumors… and I knew you fancied me your daddy but I never gave you no reason not to. Some days, I thought to myself, hmm, I'll pretend she is. So I'd pretend, and you'd pretend, and we'd pretend together. You were always a good, quiet lil' daughter," he helped her into her saddle and handed her the reins, "you remember I was a good father?"

"I remember. You were a wonderful father. I dried those wildflowers and kept them."

"Good, good," he grumbled and shuffled back to bed, closing the horse stalls, "then I won't remember you were here."

Ilia wanted to turn around, embrace him and kiss him on both cheeks but Arwyn was already trotting ahead of her. The drawbridge was still open and they slipped behind a wagon cart that just happened to be passing the Crossing. Echo ran by, a black blur, skidding to a halt underneath the wagon. Large wheels hid him from view, and black fur blended his figure with the shadows. The wagon contained supplies to aid the traveling army. The wagon would follow the soldiers at a distance, ready to lend aid when battle came.

Ilia and Arwyn kept their hoods up and the guards probably mistook them for septa, allowing them to pass. Ilia exhaled a great breath when the horse's hooves hit land. She fought the urge to laugh out loud. Arwyn grinned from underneath her hood. The light from the rising sun glinted off her teeth, making her look exceptionally pretty that morning. Ilia felt like she made the right choice, for once.


	6. Chapter 6: Water and the Deer

Chapter Six: Water and The Deer

The wagon rested near a tributary of the Blue Fork. A brook was near enough to replenish the traveler's water supplies. They settled down only minutes before the sun was due to set. Medicine men, septa, septons, farmhands, and swords set to gathering wood, hoisting tents and unsaddling horses so they could be tied and set to pasture. Ten riders were with the wagon sent to support the Stark and Frey army, Ilia and Arwyn among them, lingering at the back of the party for fear of being recognized. Immediately after dismounting and feeding her brown mare, Ilia peeked briefly under the wagon's wheels. Echo was gone, but she presumed him to be close by.

Ilia knelt by the brook to wash the sweat from her brow. Her forehead would always sweat when she was nervous. It was risky business to travel, and she hoped Ser Perry might show to collect her sister soon. If only he knew they were coming.

Lord Frey's marks were starting to fade. After a full day of riding, her eye had returned to its normal size, the redness had diminished, her cheek was no longer as tender and her split lip was scabbed, but not infected. She washed and cleaned the scab with clear water, and dried blood came off. The cut appeared smaller now.

Satisfied, Ilia returned to the wagon where a fat medicine man had made a fire. He stacked kindling like a pyramid, and gave her a jovial wave when she approached. His apprentice, a red haired, dark skinned, lanky fellow with straight white teeth handed a bowl of warm chicken broth to her. Meeting eyes, he smiled and named himself Jenner.

Ilia froze. Jenner waited politely for her to return the courtesies. "My name is Nara," her tongue finally dislodged itself, "a servant of the Frey's"

He nodded and returned to stirring a large black kettle pot. Fallen logs were rolled from nearby, and positioned in a circle around the blaze. Two fierce men did the heavy lifting. Sellswords, it dawned on her. The tall, black haired one had a longsword strapped to his belt and the shorter, balding man wore a scar from his right temple to just below his eye. Two hand axes swung on his hips. Hired swords would protect a wagon while the soldiers fought for their lords, but for what price?

Ilia sat between Arwyn and an aged septa. "See those men there?" She prodded her sister's leg and moved her eyes discreetly to the scarred man and his companion. Standing, the two men they exchanged jokes between mouthfuls of soup. Arwyn nodded.

"They're sellswords. Wendel told me once that those types of men cannot be trusted. They could fight for one lord one day, and switch to a brigand the next. They've no loyalty but to the man who has the largest purse. Raping or pillaging… it doesn't matter to them, as long as the coin is good."

"So?" Arwyn sighed. "We've got nothing to worry about. They're _hired_ for us. The tall one is actually pretty handsome, and they helped me down from my horse today. They helped set of camp, and caught a rabbit for food. People, Ilia, surround us. At any rate, they won't get their money if they don't do their job. They'll protect the wagon and us, or they won't get paid."

Her stomach knotted and she felt restless, but she nodded in agreement. Ilia was paranoid and Arwyn had a point. Most men aren't paid until the job is done. From that perspective, these men had an investment to keep them safe. On the other hand, if they were after the coin of the septon, they only had to cut his purse and take it. The man was ninety years old, after all. Ilia told Arwyn her new alias, and Arwyn took the name _Ysol_. Her sister giggled childishly, because new names were fun and interesting.

The sun disappeared to sleep on the other side of the world, and the moon rose in turn. Full and bright, Ilia wondered why no house had ever taken the moon as its sigil. Plenty of suns decorated knight's breastplates and the Dornish men were famous for the sun sigil. Ilia couldn't think of any moons. If she ever had a banner, she would choose a crescent moon, silver on purple, and stars to dance around it. Lost in her daydream, Ilia heard the crunch of footsteps only when brown leather came into view. The handsome one stood in front of her.

"May I sit?" he gestured to the empty seat next to her. The old woman had gone. Arwyn was chatting gaily with a young septon nearby. Ilia nodded reluctantly, finding no choice in the matter. Refusing him would be an insult, and they needed to keep friends in this group.

"You have beautiful dark hair, it brings out your silver eyes. Are you from the North?"

Her blush betrayed her. Compliments made her uncomfortable, never knowing how to respond. Her face still looked rough, and she didn't know this man well enough to discern if he was being sincere or sarcastic.

"Who would do that to such a pretty girl?" He relieved himself of his riding gloves to gently tip her chin up.

"My father," Ilia confessed. It was easier to tell the truth. Telling too many lies might build a trap for her later. Besides, the truth was simpler to remember for the time being. She needed to talk to Arwyn about all the lies they would need to invent. They needed stories to tell.

"Ah," he said, "you are running from him then, a bold and brave decision. I ran from my father when I was twelve. See this scar here?" He pushed up his sleeve to reveal a round burn, "he used to put out his pipe tobacco on my arm, dreadfully painful, but uproariously funny to a drunk. See this one?" Pulling his shirt aside, a thin white scar ran around his collarbone. "Tried to choke me with a wire. I lived. He was not pleased. Had enough of him one day. Like you, I decided to take my chances. Now here I am, sitting next to a sad beautiful woman and warming my hands on the fire. What is your name, pretty one?"

"Nara," Ilia professed.

"Simple. Pretty. I do not believe you. It does not fit. It is like calling a skinny woman Berthanda, you see? It doesn't fit. You look like a more complicated woman."

Annoyed by his forward manner and constant assumptions, Ilia huffed and made to leave. His hand shot out and grabbed the sleeve of her gown. He did not pull, but held her there firmly. His eyes pleaded understanding.

"I'm sorry, that was rude. Please, sit down. You have told me your name and I will tell you mine. It is Diram, but my friends call me The Deer, or Deer."

"Pleasure to meet you," Ilia inclined her head but did not sit back down. This man spoke too quickly and offered too much of himself. Already she was softening in disposition toward him, and she had no energy to be tricked.

"You prefer to stand I see, well, perhaps a walk? To clear the young woman's mind?"

Ilia shook her head. "No, I should get to bed. It's getting late and my sister…" she paused. Where was Arwyn? They had been supping brother together only moments ago. A wave of panic rose within her and she forced herself to remain calm. _Think_. The Deer waited patiently. Was he sent to distract her? While her sister was stolen away? Ilia gripped the handle of her knife and turned on him.

"Where is my sister?" she spat.

"Who? The brown haired girl?" his black brow furrowed. "I do not know, truly. I didn't even know you were sisters. You don't look that much alike. Perhaps she went to relieve herself or wash in the stream. Traveling is messy business. Or perhaps she has retired already."

Ilia took deep, even breaths. She forced calm to take the place of panic. Staring into the Deer's eyes, he seemed earnest. He had been talking to her when Arwyn disappeared. Maybe he was distracted and didn't see her leave either. The camp was quiet, only the fire crackled. Every man was accounted for… save her sister and… She cursed when she was the scarred man was nowhere to be seen.

Whirling around, she slid her dagger from its sheath. The steel rang lightly. Ilia held it threateningly toward the Deer. The fire popped and fizzled behind her, reminded Ilia of her second line of defense. The Deer raised his hands in submission.

"Where is your companion then?" she questioned.

"The bald man? Grizzle they call him. I do not know. He is a solitary creature and I only just met him the other day. Why?"

"He's gone," she swiped the knife in the direction of Grizzle's vacant post, "and my sister is too. What game are you playing? Aren't you the least bit concerned that the only other sword in this group has vanished?"

The Deer stood, he was taller than her, causing her to temporarily lose her nerve. Then she remembered her fire and kept her ground. "Please, my lady, calm yourself. Sheath your weapon. There is nothing in this neck of the woods but foxes, raccoons, and a few stray dogs. They are in no danger. I doubt they have gone far."

Ilia did not add that she was more concerned about the danger the rough sellsword posed to her sister than any stray dogs. She bit her tongue to stop from lashing out. Away from the camp, she could use her fire to overpower this Deer if he proved untrustworthy. She made her decision.

"We're going to look for them then, if it's as safe as you say. You and I should be safe."

"The lady seeks to hire me?"

"The lady requests your protection," she replied, taking a few steps toward the woods. Passing by Arwyn and Ilia's forgotten bedrolls, she slung her saddlebag onto her back. It never hurt to be prepared. The Deer's footsteps signaled his consent to follow. The forest was asleep now, and dark, very dark. The leaves shielded the glow of the moon, leaving little light. The brook was only another fifty feet down a rocky hill and Ilia got more nervous. Her heart pounded in her chest. The Deer trailed behind her. He was not too close, but never far away. Thus, when she stumbled, he grabbed her around the waist to right her.

Ilia pulled against his grip. "Deer, let me go."

"I'm sorry, I don't think we're going to find them tonight. Why not give up the search and try again in the morning? Perhaps you're thirsty and would like a drink of ale from the keg?"

Wriggling, she managed to shake one of his hands. The other gripped her hip strictly, preventing further distance between them. His face was veiled by darkness, and his eyes looked down on her, expressionless.

"You're very pretty, you know." The Deer's free hand came to rest on her neck. He let it trail lightly around her collar and two fingers slipped under the fabric of her lapel. His appendages were calloused and ice cold. Ilia shivered and terror froze her limbs. "I would not hit you like your father. I am actually very nice to my girls, not like the bald one. I would treat you right, and I can protect you from men with darker intentions. Hmm," he slipped his two other fingers under her gown and sighed, "you're warm."

Why couldn't she move? Why wouldn't she run? She needed to get away from The Deer quickly, and find Arwyn. The submissive part of her wanted to avoid pain at all cost. His father beat him, he had told her. He said he wouldn't hit her. Could she get away, maybe? Gulping and gasping, she reached to take his hand and squeeze the cold fingers. The Deer liked that and smiled amiably. His grip on her hip lessened.

"I would really like to find my sister, Deer, she might be hurt."

"Oh she's fine," he leaned down to press his lips against hers. She tried to turn her head but he grabbed her cheek and forced his mouth. She felt sick and prayed she wouldn't vomit. The panic came back, threefold, and she started to push away. The kiss broke.

"Don't be a tease," he grabbed her dress but Ilia saw the opportunity and spun backwards. He was on her faster than she could process what was happening. They both went rolling on the forest floor, but she was still managed to get farther from him. The Deer pinned her legs so she couldn't crawl away and moved his hands to her breeches. Ilia fisted her hands, grasping the ground. Cold metal graced the palm of her left hand and she swung without thought at the Deer's head.

Blood spurted from the wound. Ilia found the strength to pull the steel from the Deer's skull and thrust it into his shoulder. His face was frozen in a comically surprised expression while he choked on his life's blood. After a minute of pained eye contact, the body slumped against her as dead weight. Ilia rolled out from underneath him.

Her saddlebag was on the ground, with its contents strewn. She hurriedly replaced the grimoire and pearl in the satchel, along with scattered bits of food. Distantly, she heard a scream and a roar.

"Arwyn!"

Ilia raced downhill to the stream, knife in hand. Echo faced the bald, scared man called Grizzle. Grizzle's chest was bloodied from a swipe of the black cat's claws. One of his hand axes was embedded on a tree across the stream. Arwyn wailed and clung to Ilia's knees when she skidded to a halt at the scene. Her sister was naked from waist down, and Wendel's old blue shirt had been sheared.

Ser Perry would have nothing to do with her now.

"_Feyr_,' she conjured a flame in her palm.

Grizzle's eyes went wide, and he roared ferociously. He began a sprint toward her, but she gave him no time to act. Ilia's palms stretched outward and flames consumed him. He shrieked and swung and ax, forcing her to stumble over Arwyn and scramble backward. Echo pounced while she struggled to return to her feet. The great cat tore off the bald man's arm from his elbow, and swiped at his foe. Grizzle fell to his knees and Ilia called Echo out of the way. Another round of fire, and he stopped twitching.

Unbeknownst to them, another party approached. The apprentice to the medicine man, Jenner, came bellowing from the woods and loosed two arrows on the cat. One skinned Echo's leg and he roared. Ilia screamed. Arwyn moaned and scuttled like a crab away from the scene. Ilia summoned another line of fire to dance across the water, providing just another cover for Echo to slip into the woods. The cat was gone. The boy, Jenner, nocked another arrow, aiming for the space between her eyes.

"Witch!" he cried, "witches and whores, the both of you! Not another step!"

Arwyn gathered her pants back onto her waist and desperately covered her breasts. Ilia's brain was thinking rapidly. The apprentice was red faced and fierce looking, he would tell the septon what he had seen.

"Put down your flames," Jenner commanded. A few of the septa had arrived, and were taking Arwyn away. They watched the confrontation between Jenner and the blood covered young lady distantly. No one moved to interfere.

Ilia knew she had very little choices in front of her. The religion of the new gods was only mildly accepting of magic, but she had heard dark stories about torture cells and dungeons hidden beneath the Great Sept of Baelor.

Ilia slowly lowered her hands, making her choice.

Jenner relaxed the arrow in his string long enough for her to remember the Deer, and Grizzle. The Deer had died on top of her, and Grizzle had died by her hand. Her mother had told her that only death would brings the words of her grimoire to life. Looking down, she saw the swiftly running water weaving between their boots.

"_Ak,_" raising her hands, the water enveloped Jenner and she spun on her feet, running after Echo. Shouts, screams and a beleaguered "Ilia!" followed her. She hoped Arwyn would understand.

Unwittingly, the two sellswords, Deer and Grizzle, had sold their strength for the last time. Only this time, they collected death instead of gold.


	7. Chapter 7: The Wolf

Chapter Seven: The Wolf

"My lord, I bring some strange and troublesome news." The squire of Karstark knelt before him. His attire was rich for his station and he must have been well liked by his lord. He did not meet Robb's eyes. The lad cautiously rose.

The Lord of Winterfell inwardly sighed. They were all like that now. Careful, and meek. Where was the boy who fought courageously beside him, who drank heartily in victory by his side, only a few days before? If he charged him with his longsword, would the boy fight back? If Robb roared and danced like a buffoon, would they react? When he was boy, he relied on his parents to reproach him, and his brothers to set him straight. Now, if Robb, the King in the North, did something ludicrously wrong, his family and friends would pretend it the right! What a charade.

He was a King. The King of the North stood for justice and truth. His word was law and his decisions unquestionable. Except in private. Then, his mother told her son about all of his mistakes… and the doubts she had. Doubts they would win this war… doubts about his leadership. Was Sansa still alive? Was Arya? If by some chance the North defeated the South… if by some miracle they could reach the Keep, and free his sister. Would he hold a warm body and hear his sister's beating heart? Or would she be a corpse? Lifeless, bloodless, like the men and boys still strewn about the battlefield? So many doubts, so many fears.

Regardless of doubts, all the men, young and old, bent the knee. His crown felt awkward on his head. It was new from the forge. The old crown of the King of the North was lost many years ago. His mother gave him a reproachful look for adjusting it. He stilled his hands and returned to the matter at hand.

"What news do you bring?"

"From the Whispering Woods, my lord."

"You will address the King of the North by his _proper_ title, boy."

Greatjon Umber belched and set down a heavy flagon of ale. He adjusted his heavy wool overcoat, using the sleeve to wipe his mouth. Umber's chin was thrust upward, proud as ever, as if personally offended by the boy's casual forgetfulness. The Umbers were men of strength. True to their liege lords and true to the Old Way. Where they dwelled, harsh winters raised harsh men, and harsh men raised harsh lords, harsh, and loyal, and true, and honest. By the grace of the Old Gods, Robb's testimony against the Lannisters, and Grey Wind's ferocity, House Umber's support was gained. It had been a critical acquirement for Robb. Without Greatjon's support, Robb was a green boy, unfit to rule and unfit to command.

"My sincerest apologies, your grace," the lad bowed, causing him to lose his cap. He fumbled before placing it aright again. "I bring a report from the Whispering Woods."

"You already said that," Theon Greyjoy sat at Robb's left, as his honored brother. It was only right. Theon had saved his life on a multitude of occassions. His brother fought with him and shed blood with him. Though, he had a different sort of wisdom than other men. Theon spoke to him directly, outlining the situation brashly, rudely and sometimes with cruelty. Yet, he was always at his side for another adventure. Whether it be hunting rabbits, galloping through the Wolf's Woods, or marching South with eighteen thousand men. Theon was a good ally… but a better friend. "Have more Lannisters popped out of the grass? Need help burying their sorry asses? I wouldn't mind revisiting a few faces to piss on them."

Greatjon laughed. Catelyn made a small tsk sound under her breath. Robb heard, and knew she disapproved of Theon's crassness. Robb sent his adopted brother the Look. Eyebrows raised, chin up, firm eyes… he learned the Look a long time ago. When he was younger, father would take him to his counsels, and the open court held with the people of Winterfell. It was his duty, father said. It was his destiny. Destiny, what fickle thing. Robb hated those meetings as a child. No playing, no fiddling and his father never sat him in his lap like he used to when they were alone. Over time, he accepted that his obligations and responsibilities were unavoidable. It had hurt.

In those years they had together, father and first born son, Robb had learned a great deal about justice, lord dome, and nobility. His greatest mistake was that Robb thought he had more _time_. Time to sit and watch, to listen to his father dole justice and maintain peace. With time, he could have grown into a King. Now, it was thrust upon him. He wondered what wisdom he was lacking that made him so uncomfortable wearing a crown. If only he had paid more attention. If only father's knowledge would pass to him from the grave. Eddard Stark was a hero, a soldier and a great lord. Robb Stark was… _doubtful_. Ever doubted.

"Continue," Robb nodded. He found the less he said, the wiser he looked. And it gave him little chance to make a gaffe.

"Y-yes, your grace, I bring news from the Whispering Woods. There have been several alarming reports from our far fielded scouts. Riders all brought news of a wandering lady on the outskirts of our fields. The first scout attempted to apprehend the outsider, suspecting Lannister espionage. However, he was forced to return empty handed. Naturally, the Lord Commander of the Karstarks forces found this unacceptable. My lord sent him back with two others. Unfortunately, their efforts proved futile. They were forced to retreat a second time—"

"Is this lady skilled in some way?" Catelyn inquired, "how did she evade three seasoned men?"

"Well… when the men came riding back. They were telling mad tales, my lady, mad tales. The Lord Karstark couldn't make sense of it but he didn't accept defeat. My lord devised a new tactic. We waited until the sweet thing—"

Theon mouthed _sweet thing_ to Robb, and smirked.

"—sleeping and tied her hands lightly. When she woke, we already had her on the back of a cart. Bound snugly."

"A job well done, good squire. Yet, you did not answer my mother's question. _How_ did she avoid capture against three men grown? Soldiers nonetheless," Robb was concerned. Their enemies could exploit any weakness in their defenses.

The squire coughed and rubbed his neck simultaneously. "See that is the queer part. The men claimed she spouted fire and flung water at them. Lord Karstark isn't certain what to do with these tales, or what to do with his prisoner. We can't unbind her hands lest these tales prove to be true. So, my lord requests your recommendation on this matter?"

"… she _spouts_ fire?" Theon grinned, "gods I hope so. It's been weeks since I met an interesting woman."

"Tell me, young man, were these men drunk on their victory?" Aloud, she posed the question to the squire, leaning closer to Robb, she added, "one time Robert Baratheon tried to convince Ned he was attacked by a dragon. He'd only been drunk on wine and his coat caught on fire."

"With all due respect, my lady, these men had not had a drop of ale. They were sober as you or I."

"Not I," Greatjon slung another horn back.

"You are certain?"

"Absolutely. Lord Karstark made them recite their numbers and letters. Their heads were clear as blue sky."

"Send word to your lord. I want this woman brought before me. I would question her on this story, and hear what she had to say."

Catelyn nodded in agreement. Stories had many sides. His father used to tell him, if you listened to one side, you receive only one piece of the puzzle. The scene only comes together when all the pieces are set. Thus, you must listen to all sides. Robb remembered that advice most often. When he faced a dilemma, and was uncertain, he simply placed more puzzle pieces, and the path would become clear.

The door closed behind the squire, leaving Robb with his council. Today, it consisted of Lady Stark, the most cautious, Umber, the truest, Theon, the judgmental, Olyvar, his newly acquired mute squire, and Grey Wind, whose council was quite possibly the only one Robb could trust indefinitely.

"What Lord Karstark's men suggest is sorcery, your grace. Witchcraft, so named by the common people, if it's a woman." Umber met his eyes, expressing with a sigh the seriousness of the situation. Sorcery? Robb knew nothing on the matter. Bran always dreamed of learning magic. His little brother loved the thought. Robb wished Bran was here. He'd be jumping in his chair with excitement and wonder. Greatjon fingered the pommel at his hip, staring longingly at the map of the North before him. "In my home, a home of the Old Ways, true magic was once revered. It is a fearful weapon. Something that could turn the tide of war."

"We have no proof on the matter yet," Catelyn said.

"I'd like to know, if she spits fire, is her mouth warm?" Theon whispered to Robb. The King spit his wine back into it's cup. Theon smiled conspiratorially, pleased to make Robb laugh. He was so _serious_ all the time.

The doors to the hall reopened to admit the company. This time, Lord Karstark joined his squire. Five men, rangers by their garb and the presence of longbows across their backs, flanked him on the left and right. Between the last two men, a small dark figure was being held tightly. Long black hair hid her face. Her hair might have been resplendent if it hadn't been tangled and ill washed. Her head was bowed in defeat.

"Your grace," Lord Karstark bent his knee quickly and rose without Robb's ascent. He didn't mind, Lord Karstark was older and wiser, more experienced and renowned. The King felt like he should bow back. "As Donnel had told you, we have a dangerous and peculiar situation on hand. The lady I bring before you has been witnessed to conjure flame and water. I have questioned my men meticulously. Their stories ring straight and genuine. A lord must trust his men, your grace, no matter how strange the news. They must learn to weed out the lies and harvest the truth."

_Ah_, Robb thought, _another test?_ Another assessment of his ability to rule? Lord Karstark was forcing Robb to make a decision where Lord Karstark would rather not. Did his bannerman already know the right decision? Was this a politics game? He looked to his mother. Catelyn inclined her head. _Speak_, _Robb_, she was saying, _your word is law_.

"Bring her to me," he waved at the guards who held the lady. They dragged her forward. It did not seem like she wanted to walk. Her eyes remained glued to the floor, and the King could not see her face. Robb only knew if someone was lying if he could look at him or her. Sighing, he bid the man to pull her up.

"I need to look at her face."

The ranger grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked. It was not a gentle act. He felt awful seeing it. Robb felt even worse when he saw the pained expression she wore.

"_Kindly_," Robb expressed his disapproval. He would not torture woman at his court.

Olyvar Frey, his squire, tugged at his sleeve. Robb turned to look at him, honestly shocked by the action. Olyvar was staring, open mouthed and looked vaguely… glad? Olyvar tugged several more times before Robb cleared his throat. The squire snapped to attention and he spoke for the first time in the King's presence.

"With your leave, your grace?"

Robb could only incline his head. First, he felt dazed, Olyvar had just proven he was not mute. Robb felt foolish. War probably intimidated the boy. How old was he anyway? In his early teens? Second, he felt curiosity. What could Olyvar bring to the attention of the court, that he broke his vow of silence to bring it?

"Ilia?"

"Olyvar?" The young lady gasped. Olyvar sprung to life and closed the distance between the two. The pair embraced. His squire must know her well to inspire that affection. This scene was getting odder by the second. The Rangers shared a look, and then dropped the lady's arms. Let the squire hold her up.

"Olyvar," she said, mystified, "what?" The two pulled away. The lady's arm went around Olyvar's and he bore her weight generously. Her head rested on his slender shoulder. "Olyvar, Olyvar, Olyvar… what are you doing here?"

Lady Catelyn Stark gripped the armrest of his High Seat. Robb met her eye, and she mouthed the words, "Lord Frey". Lord Frey… _this_ was one of Lord Frey's daughters? …and one of his _younger_ daughters. The one's Robb might find _suitable_. Oh, he felt sick. He couldn't think about this so soon after father's… his… the… gods. Robb tried to run a hand through his hair, but his fingers collided with his crown and he growled impatiently.

"Olyvar… what are you wearing… those aren't our colors…?" the lady trailed off, confused and a little disoriented. He couldn't blame her.

"Lady Ilia? Lady Ilia Frey?" Being addressed by her full name, she looked up, surprised. Her eyes widened in recognition.

"Lady Stark?"

"Aye, I am Catelyn Stark. I believe your father introduced me to you, and you sister, only last week, when my son and his men passed through the Twins. Do you remember me?"

Did she remember last week? The Lady Ilia nodded her head weakly. The mention of a sister sent a shiver through her. Robb felt sorry for her. She was in a miserable state. Her attire was muddied to the extent that her clothes true colors could not be known. The cloak was of a very fine quality, like shimmering liquid, but like the rest of her, needed washing to return to its original state. Her hands were scraped, her face was dirtied, and her hair was limp and wild. She must have traveled across country.

"Yes, my lady, I do remember you. Then I must be at Riverrun, in the lands of the great House Tully." Suddenly, she dropped to her knees, the action must have pained her greatly, because her face contorted. Lady Ilia bowed her head, "my lady, if I have caused any alarm…. I did not know whose soldiers were trying to apprehend me… I'd heard terrible things about the Mountain in the Riverlands. I had not seen another man or woman for days and questioned their intentions. I only wanted… I apologize. If I had known, I would not have resisted capture. It was not my intention to cause your men any harm."

"Resisted capt—" on of the guards spluttered indignantly, "you burnt the sigil of my shield! Ser Ian has no eyebrows left!"

"Silence!" Lord Karstark came out of the woodwork, "I want to get to the bottom of this matter. My men still claim, Lady Ilia or not, that this woman has used sorcery with the intention to cause harm. What would you do, your grace? What is the King's decision?"

"Unbind her hands," Theon spoke in his place. The lords glared at him, remembering the battle at Pyke, and the ill will the North held toward the Iron Islands. "Let's see if she really is a witch. There's no point in all this pissing around without any solid proof. I want to see some flames, then we can decide what's what and who's who and if any of this is really important. We've got war matters to attend to."

Robb nodded in agreement. Once again, Theon spoke truth, albeit in a unique and brusque manner. "Greatjon," was all Robb had to say. Lord Umber stepped forth, great longsword in hand, to saw the robes from the lady's wrists. He stood by, ready to move, while the Lady Ilia rubbed her hands tenderly and winced. Robb knew that Greatjon would not sheath his sword until the Lady was proven harmless. His squire, Olyvar, continued to grip her elbow, but she gently pushed him back towards Robb. The young Frey looked confused. She obviously needed help to stand, but the lady was adamant. Perhaps she was trying to protect him from Greatjon's swing, if things did not go as planned.

"Well, get on with it," Theon tapped his foot, "the King doesn't have all day."

_I'd rather do this than think about father._

Ilia Frey hesitated, nervous and afraid. Robb could sense her anxiety, surrounded by open hostility. Her eyes kept flickering around the room, from his mother, to Olyvar, to Theon, to Olyvar… but she never looked at him. She was afraid of him… and the judgment he would pass. If Robb called for her head, would anyone stop him. Did anyone stop that little monster Joffrey? Her eyes crept close to him, and landed on his direwolf. Robb settled a hand on Grey Wind's fur. Was that.. recognition in her eyes? Grey Wolf barked.

"You," she whispered.

Grey Wind left Robb's side to circle her. He sniffed her clothing curiously. Grey Wind looked back to his master, whined, and licked her hand with care. The Lady reached down, trembling, to brush his soft fur. Grey Wind huffed, looking at Robb, and then continued to sniff her.

"To me," Robb commanded, slapping his knee. The direwolf bounded up the steps and whined. They shared a moment, staring into one another's eyes. _What are you trying to tell me?_

"How do you know my direwolf, Lady Ilia?" her name was so lilting, it felt strange on his tongue. Robb vowed to avoid saying her name again. It was too queer a sensation.

"I do not," Grew Wind barked again, as if to challenge her. She tentatively met Robb's eyes for the first time that night. Lady Ilia's eyes were shimmering with life, so contradictory of her appearance. "That is to say, we've never been formally introduced. I believe he came across me when I camped one night. His pawprints were very distinguishable in the morning. I did not know he was a _direwolf_."

"Direwolves are thriving in the North, and beyond the Wall," Grey Wind returned to his hand, finally satisfied with the topic of conversation, "winter is coming."

The Lady gulped and nodded, "you're right. The Starks are always right. Yet now, you are even more so. Winter _is_ coming. I can feel it in the air. The seasons are changing."

"Enough of this chatter and delay!" Lord Umber hefted his sword from left hand to right. "I need to see magic from this tiny little thing, or else, I'm going to lunch, I'm hungry and it's too early for this nonsense."

Lord Karstark agreed. "I would sooner this matter be settled, you grace. My men are anxious, and I need to know the truth to take suitable action to calm their nerves. A nervous army is a dead army."

"Well said," Robb fixed his gaze on the Rangers, shifting their weight left and right, and looking irritated at the passing breeze. Ser Ian's friend glared at the lady. Obviously quite irked that his shield was burnt. Perhaps it was a family heirloom. Lady Ilia felt his stare and gripped the edge of her cloak, her knuckles whitening. Her posture was uncertain, and she kept glancing at the unwelcoming faces of the hall. Robb tried to soften his expression when she looked at him, smiling slightly, and inclining his head.

"What… what should I do?" she asked.

His mother took pity on her. Thank the gods, the King had no idea what to say. "If you could, Lady Ilia, I seem to have a bit of a chill from this changing air, would you light the fire… just over there?" she pointed to a nearby torch sconce on the wall.

Slowly, ever so slowly and with great care, she raised a quivering hand. Robb felt guilty that she was still frightened. He wasn't like Joffrey, he wasn't about to throw her in the dungeons and lock away the key. How could he prove to this world that he was worthy of this crown? Why could he not inspire courage and valor? Lady Ilia rotated her hand so that her palm faced the ceiling, and whispered something unintelligible. A tiny, flickering flame, no bigger than the one a match might make, appeared. The little blaze extinguished when both rangers took it upon themselves to pin her arms behind her. She cried out in surprise and pain.

Robb heard the ringing of steel. Olyvar leapt forward, his new longsword in his hands. With a menacing look, he pressed the tip of his blade to the nearest ranger's throat. Greatjon looked on with apathy. Oddly enough, his bannerman had not been alarmed at the sight of the flame. He hefted a great sigh and sheathed his sword. Olyvar pressed on.

"You will not touch my beloved Aunt, scum!" his squire hissed. Lord Karstark put a firm hand on his man's shoulder. The ranger released Lady Ilia abruptly, pushing her towards the squire. She fell into Olyvar's arms, forcing him to drop his sword. Robb decided it was time to give his judgment.

"Lord Karstark, it seems you have your answer. Your men did _not_ lie to you," the King stood, and projected his voice over the great hall. "Olyvar, your relative is not in danger. I ask that you alert your father and your uncles to their sister's arrival. They will want to see her and may be affronted that she was not brought immediately to the Frey encampment. Tell them I will explain this delay. If it is agreeable with Lord Karstark, I shall take the Lady Ilia into my custody, and he shall deal with his men as he sees fit, though I see no reason for any severe punishment."

Robb's bannerman bowed and turned on his heel. The Karstark soldiers followed him dutifully, bowing to the King on their way to the door. Lady Ilia looked immensely relieved, but swayed dangerously on her feet. Olyvar steadied her. Robb's mother called for her handmaiden.

"Lena, would you show Lady Ilia to a room and offer her a bath? Perhaps a change of clothes and a hot meal? I'm sure her brother's would be more pleased to see her if she had rested and bathed. She's been through a long journey."

Dark hair bobbed up and down, in gratitude. Robb was certain the events of this morning would lead to many interesting things. They always did. Grey Wind whined as the Lady left, looking at his master. With the distraction gone, Robb could only look sadly back. His thoughts returned to his father.


	8. Chapter 8: Power Struggles

Chapter Eight: Power Struggles

Ilia plunged her head underwater. Naked in a warm bath, the lady began to feel whole again. Earlier, when Lady Stark's maid brought her food, she had inhaled the cooked fowl and snow peas. Her stomach clenched painfully afterwards. In the bath, Ilia's muscles relaxed, and the mud caked on her skin was fading. Three fingers regained sensation, which was a relief because she feared the cold might have taken them. When Ilia emerged from the water, she gulped the air vivaciously. Her lungs burned. It felt good to be alive again. It felt good to _want_ life.

She was given oil for her hair. Using her newly revived fingers and a fine-toothed comb, she unknotted the tangles, and cut small mats from the base of her neck. There was no point in carrying dead weight anymore. Ilia never considered her self vain, that role was largely played by Arwyn, but hacking at her long hair, even slightly, upset and saddened her. Black hair was part of her identity. It set her apart from the other Frey children. Practically, though, it was dead, and Ilia mind and body was not. The gods had thrown her into Robb Stark's army. She had been found. She was alive. It was a miracle by any man's standards.

Rejoicing in her good luck, she slept for hours. When she woke, it was dusk. It was alarming to stand in front of the mirror, and trace her fingers along the welts of her back. Lord Frey's cane had scarred, since Ilia had not sought treatment. Those scars were as much a part of her identity as her hair. Lady Stark left her with a blue dress. Simple wool. It was loose around the shoulders and sleeves, and too long for her body, but it smelled delightfully clean. Ilia spent a good minute sniffing the fabric before donning it. Never before had she so loved the smell of soap. To Ilia's dismay, her clothes had been taken while she slept. She hoped they would be returned. In fact, she would demand the return of the cloak.

Getting attacked, being captured, thrown in a cell… and brought in front of Lord… King Robb, it was overwhelming. Ilia's head felt it might implode. She couldn't bear to think about Arwyn. The thought of her sister's situation enraged her. Ilia's blood boiled at the thought of Grizzle. Moreover, Echo was still alone, somewhere in the wilderness. Now that she was here, in Riverrun, with the Northern army, Ilia was positive her brother's would not give her leave to search for them. In fact, she doubted she would be permitted to leave this room. Two guards were already stationed outside the door when she was ushered inside. Anyone's comings and goings would be monitored closely. Ilia traded one cell for another. Deep down, she knew it to be true.

At least the Starks were not fools. Sliding on a pair of slippers left for her, she noted her boots had gone. It figured. Ilia could walk anywhere with boots, but nowhere in slippers. Clever. Meeting with Lady Stark in the future might prove interesting. Next, Ilia peered into the hallway. The guards did not look at her. Ilia observed his helmeted profile. Honestly, it could have been a woman and she wouldn't have known.

"Am I… permitted to leave?"

"The Lady may go as she pleases."

Well, that was surprising. Closing her door, she gave the guard a curt nod. He stared back. Gods, these Northerners were a stiff bunch. Ilia brushed past the soldier and took a long stairwell. Ilia took special note where she walked, so she might find her way back to her room later. Two double doors were built at the end of the staircase. Dancing fish, the sigil of House Tully, were carved into the molding. Beyond the doors a stone pathway took her through a large courtyard. Absent of flowers, Ilia found green shrubs and pine trees. Several large rounded stones, most likely river rock, were etched with caricatures of the Seven. Ilia trailed slowly along the path. It was beautiful here. Cold wind circled her feet, and whipped around her hair. It soothed her headache.

Shouting from the high windows of the keep instantly drew her attention. She knew that voice belonged to Stevron. Ilia picked up her pace, jogging to the windows. Somehow, she followed the wall and found her way up another set of stairs and in the back of a large throne room. This was where they had dragged her earlier. Ilia recognized the floors. Smooth, polished black marble. Ilia could see the back of King Robb's chair, and the auburn braid of Lady Stark. A giant of a man, tall a fearsome, with graying black hair saw her first. He raised his eyebrows and said nothing, taking a long drag out of his wooden pipe. There were other members of the court at Riverrun, but Ilia had eyes for two men only.

"Why was my sister not brought directly to me? Do you make a habit of imprisoning sixteen year old girls?"

"Lady Ilia attacked my men, both sides were injured and dealt injury," a regal man with a grey cloak spoke. Ilia recognized his voice. He had visited her when she was incarcerated. The lord had begged Ilia to speak, to learn her side of the story. She was so weakened from exhaustion and dehydration, she did not think to respond.

"The Lady attacked a group of men who grabbed at her in the middle of the night? You are supposing her a criminal. It is only natural my half-sister sought to defend herself. Many more woman would have done the same." Oh, Rivers, always protecting her. A bastard speaking against a great lord. Her half brother looked different. He'd grown a beard. His armor was composed of black leather, and new blue ring mail, along with the silver cloak of the Frey's. He looked almost… dashing. It wasn't just his clothing either. Something had changed in the way he held himself. Straight and proud, daring to meet the Lord's eye. Lord Fey would have had a conniption to see him like this. War changed many things.

"Did you ask who she was? Where she had come from? Did you wonder why her cloak and clothes were so fine? Did you ask her name before you threw her in the dungeons? No!" Stevron was angry, and Ilia had never known him to have a temper. Lord Karstark had, in face, made that effort. Ilia felt injustice for the sake of the regal lord.

"I don't think you have much to worry about, Ser Stevron. You underestimate our young lady's elemental prowess. Your sister was not defenseless. The Lady knocked out three seasoned warriors, by herself, _and_ unarmed… save for a knife. Hell, if she was a man, I'd make her into a knight." The big man had a big voice. Popping his pipe back in his mouth, he winked at her. Ilia's chest felt warm from his praise. It was nice to know someone believed she wasn't powerless and feeble. Ilia wondered who this man was. "The young woman's not a stupid lass either. Have you come to give us your thoughts on the matter, my lady?"

Her cover was blown. Stepping into the room, Stevron immediately moved to embrace her, and block her from the room's view. "Ilia, what strange fate brought you to here? The battlefront is no place for a lady," he whispered, and stroked her hair. The sensation was so comforting; she ignored his words and closed her eyes. His armor was hard and cold, but his embrace was warm and gentle. Not for the first time, she wished Stevron was her legitimate father.

Walder Rivers stepped up next. Grinning merrily, he spun her around like a toy doll. "Illy," he called her. Elmar used to call her that, as a babe, when he could not pronounce her name. Setting her down, Ilia kissed him on both furry cheeks.

"I like it, it makes you seem more…"

"Handome?"

"No… hairy."

Olyvar nodded in her direction. Olyvar was always shy and quiet. Ilia hope war hadn't made him more so. She wondered what he was doing here. Olyvar was meant to be at the Twins, training to become a knight. Then again, _she_ was supposed to be at the Twins. What was happening to their family? Emmon ran a hand over her hair and kissed her on the head. Hosteen put two appraising hands on her shoulders, "Gods, you're a pretty one." Theo kissed her hand, and Perwyn just blinked, never a man to show public affection. The rest of her brother's either had important duties to attend to… or these were the only ones to care. Lord Frey did have a multitude of daughters. If one went missing, there would be no great clamber to find her. Ilia's heart sunk, thinking of Arwyn.

"Enough of these frivolities. You've greeted each other. You've seen her. She's happy and healthy. My lady," the big man turned to address her, "would you like to bring charges against Lord Karstark for the manner of your capture? It's a ridiculous notion and I would oppose it instantly, but you'd likely leave this room with a few more silvers than you started with. If that's what you're interested in doing," he snorted.

"Lord Karstark?"

"Twas my command that you be bound and imprisoned, my lady," the regal man bowed, "I am greviously sorry for any harm that might have befallen you."

"Oh, no stop, please."

The hall silenced, waiting for her to continue. Lady Stark, who she just noticed sitting in her chair, leaned forward to look at her. The stare was unnerving. Catelyn was waiting for something. Looking expectantly. Walder Rivers gave her a look. _Don't misbehave_. Yet, he should have known that Ilia could never be able to do what Walder Rivers wanted. She broke her promise to stay away from the study. Ilia couldn't have stayed away if she wanted to. It just wasn't within her. A bitter voice came into her mind. The rest of the room was waiting for Ilia to fall to her knees, crying and wailing like Arwyn did when Grizzle attacked her. She wondered if her sister put up a good fight. Did she throw her hands up to submit just to avoid pain? Ilia vividly remembered thinking the same thing. And yet, she hadn't. And still, she wouldn't. Ilia just couldn't submit anymore.

She looked at the big man, "who are you, my lord?"

"I am Lord Greatjon Umber," he said proudly, "I serve the King in the North, loyally and fiercely as my ancestors did when the North was a separate kingdom from the South. At your pleasure."

"Lord Umber, I have heard tales about your strength. You are well renowned and respected. I feel it right to inform you of my position. If anyone wanted to hear my opinion, I feel I would have been summoned to this room the instant my voice was desired. Alas, my brother's do not find my voice necessary important on this matter."

"It was thought," Stevron interceded, jumping between her and Lord Umber, "best that you remain resting. You've had a long and trying journey. You needed something substantial to eat. This is a matter _we_ can handle, little sister. Perhaps you might return to the room Lady Stark had provided for you. It will be dark soon and you're going to want plenty of rest for your return journey home."

"Home? Are you… You can't… you can't possibly expect… Stevron!" Ilia looked beseechingly at Rivers. Walder eyes gave away nothing. He agreed, she realized. They were going to cart her off, when she was so close to Echo and Arwyn. Clearing her throat, to catch the tears that threatened to spill, she spoke. "I have gone… a great many leagues, alone in the wilderness. I traveled by myself. I had no guards, and I had no family. I starved and I froze. I cried and I screamed. I saw cats, and wolves and shadows in the night. I whispered to those shadows, and I dreamed of death…"

Stevron bowed his head, in shame for her loud speech. Ilia wished he would be ashamed of his own. How could he do this? Who would find Arwyn? Who would find Echo?

"The greatest day of my life was when Lord Karstark bound and gagged me. I am alive because of you, my lord," she curtseyed to the bannerman. Lord Karstark looked greatly relieved. He would be spared the Frey wrath. "Thank you. Your men gave me bread and your cells sheltered me from rain and cold. It is only through capture that I survived. If you truly suspected me a Lannister spy I would be dead. I know that."

Lord Karstark let out a shuddering breath and bowed in gratitude. "My lady, I appreciate your understanding."

Stevron looked between the two, clearly irritated at the lord's easy comeuppance. Obviously, her eldest brother did not see eye to eye with Lord Karstark. Arwyn… Echo… their lives were not as important as Stevron's argument with a Northern lord. Ilia was filled with anger. Once again, power struggles and political games took precedence over everything else. Wasn't there more to life than this?

"Brother, did you really think I was going to play a piece in your chess game?"

"Ilia!" Walder Rivers grabbed her elbow, growling. "Carefully now."

"Speak respectably to our older brother, sister," Perwyn snipped.

"What were you willing to do? For my sake? Have him pay you a handsome sum in recompense? Go to war with the Karstarks? Don't be ridiculous. I'm fine. I will not have senseless argument in my name."

"Well, that resolves things quite nicely, I think." Lord Umber stood, clapping his hands. "Glad we asked for the lady's opinion. Wrapped up the issue rather quickly."

"Not all the issues, Lord Umber. No… there are a great many left. " Ilia turned on Rivers this time, "What are you going to do with me? Ship me back to the Twins? Send me back to father? He'll take care of the problem as he always does. He'll dispatch me like he dispatched my mother and all his other wives that no longer performed to his satisfaction. I will not return there. Arwyn is still missing and so is Echo. Rivers, you understand, how can I leave? I'm still closer to them here; I can find the trail again! I have unfinished business here."

The younger man snorted, the one who sat at the King's right. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Ilia felt her blood boil, and her eyes were daggers when she found him. The fires roared, and she spied the cup of water in his hands. Ilia remembered then, what power she had over this minute little man. For the first time, she wanted to _abuse_ her power. Ilia wanted to wipe the smirk from his face.

And still… Lady Stark was watching. The older woman was on the edge of her seat, unblinking. Finally, Ilia looked at the King. He was a handsome, and about her age. His great fur cloak and brown-red beard made him appear as a big wolf. Blue eyes were fixated on her, unmoving. With a crown on his dark curls, and high, noble cheekbones, he really did look like a King. Robb Stark wore dark armor, leather and steel wrought together. A gloved hand rested on the neck of his furry companion, Grey Wind. The wolf who watched her sleep. The wolf Echo left with.

"Your grace," she turned her gaze on the King, "you have said nothing. My father planned to marry me, or my sister, to Lord Stark. He's been saving me, you see, I'm …" she laughed out loud, "the pretty one. Well?" Ilia brought two palms up. This time, the flames were not meek. Two, three foot tall infernos leapt from her hands. Grey Wind barked, whines and barked again at the sight. Gasps and the sound of steel filled the hall. The Greatjon held his longsword menacingly at the back of her head. The young man at the King's right drew his sword too, holding it at her neck.

"Careful, woman. I could skewer you right here."

"Not before I burned the flesh from your face. You see? Why should I be careful anymore? Why should I fear you? I have _nothing _to lose. I killed two men. I stabbed one and burned the flesh from another. Steel can't do anything to me. I'll melt it in your hands."

The man's eyes flickered to his right. The King remained immobile. Ilia felt satisfied that she had caused his right hand man's gaze to falter. He was afraid, and that made her feel accomplished.

"I am tired of being treated like I am insignificant. I am not a possession to be bought or sold at my father's leisure." Ilia turned on her brothers, they were angry. Emmon was more furious than she had ever seen him before. Stevron did not meet her eye, turning his chin up. The Frey family name had been tarnished forever. Stevron's pride was offended. Outbursts were not acceptable. Only Rivers looked at her, sad and accepting.

"The next time that my name is brought forth in conversation, I ask that you call for me," she bowed to the King, and lowered her hands. The great rebellious energy she had was gone. Lord Umber's steel pricked as it left her skin. The leather on the King's hand squelched as it gripped Grey Wind's fur. Ilia turned on her heel, brushing shoulder to hip with Lord Umber. Their eyes met. Silver and silver. Under his grey beard, his mouth moved. Ilia did not stay to hear what he said.

"I'm not going back. I'm going to find my sister, _and_ my friend."


	9. Chapter 9: Destiny and Purpose

Chapter Nine: Destiny and Purpose

Ilia tossed and turned, tangling her limbs in the bed sheets. Sweat dripped form her brow. Beneath closed eyelids silver orbs flickered back and forth. Beyond her bed, beyond that room, beyond Westeros, Ilia stood in a vast desert. A horrible wind took her into the sky and her skin was scorched black by the sun. Shrieking filled the aid. Suddenly, the gods dropped her. Ilia rocketed towards the Earth. When her vision halted, she was floating above a mountain of ashes. A desert made of ashes. Shrieking filled the air, and the mountain blew away. Bit by bit, piece by piece until a rippling black mass of muscle was left.

The giant bat unfurled itself. No, not a bat... a dragon, and at it's feet the woman from her dreams knelt naked. Shrieking, ungodly, unholy shrieking filled the air. Ilia's lungs were filling with water. Water, ash and putrid things and she opened her mouth to scream. The blond woman smiled, and opened her arms to embrace her.

Screaming, gasping, and sweaty, Ilia woke. The last thin she remembered was lying down. She had had a headache earlier. It was gone now, but she was shaken by her dream. Fumbling for a match, she stilled her hands "_feyr_". A strong blaze grew in her right palm. The blankets had been kicked to the floor and Ilia's feet found their way to her vanity.

The saddlebag containing her mother's grimoire and the giant pearl was returned to her last night. A timid young lad came to her room, begging her pardon and offered her the bag. Still furious at her brother's and the entirety of the world, she snatched the bag from his fingers and slammed the door. Now that she had slept and taken time to think, a guilty conscious took hold. Ilia knew she should not have been so cold and openly aggressive. Yet… her temper had gotten the best of her.

On her bed sat a new set of clothing. Black leather breeches, a green shirt, leather vest, high brown boots, and her mother's fine cloak folded on top. Ilia quickly dressed. These were finely made riding clothes. Fit for a rich lady with an affinity for men's clothing. Fortunately, they were small enough to fit her frame. She tied her mother's clock to the shoulders of the vest. The sleeves would only encumber her movement during the day. She slipped on her riding gloves and carried the saddlebag in one hand.

The courtyard was deserted. In fact, she ran into very few men. The two assigned to watch her movements openly followed her. Glancing backwards briefly, to get a good look at them, the morning sky caught her eye. There was a red streak in the West. The comet had the longest tail of any star she had ever seen. The blood red smear transfixed her. Distantly, she heard the shrieking again. Ilia was filled with terror. Her fists clenched and unclenched. Anxiety took hold. Was it safe to leave?

It was an omen. Ilia was certain. What type of omen? She didn't know. Gazing at the comet, she saw the blonde woman, surrounded by black wings. A powerful surge of energy ran through Ilia's body. The sensation was familiar. It was the same feeling that overtook her yesterday. The power in her blood invigorated and empowered her, yes, but the comet made her feel invincible… indestructible… immovable. Ilia didn't know how long she stood, fixated on the red comet. She lost all sense of time.

A hand fell on her shoulder.

Ilia wanted to turn, but she couldn't look away. The stranger's hand left. Ilia supposed she was being rude. Another voice sounded in her head. Wasn't she tired of waiting on others? Now, she was powerful enough to be waited _on_. Let the world fade away. Ilia was the center of it.

"I see you have found the clothes that were left for you."

Ilia jumped. Just like that, the world was back in focus.

"Lady Stark," red hair, green fabric, grey fur and black cloak swam in her vision. Catelyn looked like she hadn't slept at all during the night. Pristine as Lady Stark's appearance was, the tiredness in her eyes could not be hidden. Did she have a dream too? Ilia shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs.

"I had them take these clothes from my old dresser. I was about your size… once. I would wear these to go riding with Peter, and Lisa… so many years ago."

"Thank you," Ilia bobbed her head. "My old traveling clothes were not of such a fine quality. They were all worn from the wilderness, save my cloak."

"Yes," Lady Stark reached a hand to feel the lining of the cape. "I can see that. Such beautiful fabric. My daughter Sansa would be atwitter at the sight."

An awkward silence fell on the two. Ilia did not know what to say. Wendel had told her the awful fate of the two Stark daughters, but she hadn't thought anymore of it. Standing face to face with their mother… was a different story entirely. Ilia could see the toll it had taken on the woman's face. Lady Stark was heartbroken, her voice cracked at the name of her eldest daughter.

"Are you leaving by the road?"

The question caught Ilia off guard. She felt she had no choice. If she stayed, her brother's would demand her return to the Twins. There, her father would do anything to exact his revenge. There was no telling what punishment Lord Frey might inflict. A shiver ran down her spine. No, she would not return. At least, she could not return without finding Arwyn and Echo.

"Yes, I must find my sister… and my cat. It is the only way. I have no choice."

"No choice?" Lady Stark laughed. It was short, hollow laughter that made Ilia feel mocked. "I've heard those words before. From my son, and my husband, and now you, a girl barely into her womanhood. I suppose you think you must go due to a twisted sense of honor. Or duty. Let me tell you something, Lady Ilia," she spoke firmly and adamantly, "you always have a choice."

Confused, Ilia shook her head. This wasn't her choice. Ilia had nowhere to call home. The Twins were no longer an option. Home was no longer safe. Riverrun and the encampment was a trap her brother's would eventually set. Arwyn and Echo were alone. What other path lie before her?

"I will not sit idle while my sister and friend suffer."

"I cannot sit by while my daughters cry, my son marches, and my husband dies, but I do. Lady Ilia, there is another way," Catelyn Stark's gaze flickered to Ilia's bag. The young woman clutched the strap possessively. Ilia narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"What do you want?" Ilia demanded, sounding reminiscent of her late father. Everyone always wanted something. That was the one true lesson her father taught her. Everything, and everyone had a price. Lady Stark had taken an unnatural interest in her and she wanted to know why. Ilia would not stoop to be another person's pet again. "Speak plainly."

"I want to see my daughter's."

"Then win your war," Ilia turned to leave.

"I head Ned tell me the old gods had ways of seeing, years ago. They saw through space, through air, through time and bodies." Lady Catelyn grabbed her elbow, preventing her departure. Ilia could only see the Lady Stark's hand, and the wedding ring she still wore. "My husband used to believe that separation was an illusion. We are all connected by earth, air, fire and water. A long time ago, the children could see like the gods. They could see into infinite space. Or so he said. I don't know what to believe anymore. But I have to believe in my husband's legacy or I'd go mad."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want your help."

Ilia finally turned back around. Lady Stark let her iron grip slacken. The older woman was looking at her beseechingly.

"I want you to help my find my daughters. Arya, in particular. Since… the Lannisters executed my… husband I have receive no word about her. Not even a whisper. I don't know what to think. I don't know if she's alive or—" she cut off, swallowing thickly. "I just want to know if she's alive. If there's still hope. I want your help. Lady Ilia, your _help_. Stay, and I will make it _worth your while_."

Ilia scoffed. "There is nothing you can give me that I would want. I want my sister and my friend, like you want your daughters. They are the people I love."

"Then perhaps we can find them as well."

"How?" Ilia shook her head. "I do not know any way. I do not have the knowledge these…" Ilia broke off. Her hand went to the saddlebag at her hip. The grimoire was stashed there. Lady Stark's eyes followed her movements. Ilia unhooked the bag's major compartment and brought out the leather-bound, plain black book. Sifting through the pages, heedless of Lady Stark, Ilia found the section dedicated to the word of power, water.

"_Ak_, water," Ilia read aloud. Lady Stark moved to stand beside her and look over her shoulder. "Water is the most versatile and adaptable element. Water builds community and family. As the flow of life, water creates bonds. It is the element of connection. Only a flexible mind, strongly centered, can manipulate the water to their will. Tumultuous minds only brew storms. Immovable minds create dams."

Ilia scanned the next several pages out of curiosity. These forms, spells, and enchantments were different from the pages dedicated to fire. Fighting and defense was not the central focus. Instead, unique, peaceful, and practical applications could be found here. There were pages dedicated to agriculture, cleaning, healing, and communication. One, peculiar drawing depicted a woman with long dark hair standing over a basin of water. The image was beautiful. Annara Farring had a steady, soft hand for illustration. Lady Stark stilled Ilia's hands with a light touch. She pointed to the image, and Ilia read the description.

"Scrying, the art of communication. A deep understanding of the connection between individuals, and an awareness of the world is necessary. When you are aware, the possibilities are endless."

"That," Lady Stark tapped the picture, "that is what I want you to do."

"I…" Ilia hesitated. "I don't know how yet. I can barely use this element. I am not skilled enough." It wasn't a completed lie. Though now, after reading Annara's words, Ilia could understand why. Fire came easily to her, because she was confused, and desperate for control. Ilia had not understood the essence of the word _Ak_. With time, and practice, and this new understanding, perhaps she could master water as well.

"I do not ask you this, expecting immediate results. Nor do I expect this service for free. I only ask that you try. I… I cannot do anything. Yet, I cannot live knowing nothing about Arya's fate. I must ease my mind. I must try something." Here, she took Ilia's hand in hers and Ilia had no choice but to look Lady Stark in the eye. "I know, Lady Ilia. I know you cannot return to the Twins because you fear for your safety there. You fear to stay here, because your brothers will send you home. I also know you feel responsible for your sister's life. However, stay with me… and I can offer you_ protection_. My son can offer you sanctuary within these walls and at his camps. Protection, and _freedom_ to do as you desire."

"And the guards… following me?" Ilia asked.

"Gone," Lady Stark waved a hand and the two figures across the courtyard vanished. Ilia briefly wondered if the Lady had choreographed that.

Alone on the open path, Ilia was face with another fork in her path. The decision was rather obvious. Traveling alone, again, in the wilds was dangerous and foolish. Without a party to accompany her she would not be saved from death a second time. Here, at Riverrun, or with the army and Lady Stark, she would remain cared for. Here, she could bring her sister back to a place of safety. Shelter and food was an intoxicating thought to one who had experienced the true wilds. From here, she could find Arwyn and Echo. From here, she could bring relief to a despairing mother. Perhaps she could reunite Lady Stark with her daughter. In this place, Ilia could prove herself to be benevolent.

"I will do it, provided you won't stop me from leaving, when it comes time to fetch my sister."

"I will not hold you back."

Visiting the Lion's cage made him angry.

Boy, he was called. Boy, they said. Boy, the lion tittered. Robb was an adult. Newly grown, but a man nonetheless. Yet it continued. Boy, inexperienced, unknowing, young, green, boy, child, a babe in the eyes of men and doubtful, ever so doubtful in his mother's eyes. Robb, the boy King.

He kicked a round rock. Alone, Robb was allowed to act on his anger and frustration. No one was around to see him clench his jaw and seethe. Grey Wind trotted at his side, a constant companion to his anguish. At least the Kingslayer feared his wolf. There were no rules when it came to war between wolves and lions. If Robb needed to threaten a man with Grey Wind, he would.

Robb had been feeling strong today, which prompted him to visit the prisoner. Today, his mother told him the truth about Bran's fall. What sick, depraved creature would do that sort of thing? How could he call himself a man, or a knight? His father died for the truth of Joffrey's birth. That much was made clear by Lord Stannis' letter. What disgusting conspiracy! Robb had received the letter just after breakfast, and his mother was violently ill afterwards. The experience had not been pleasant but he stood strong and firm, ever the Lord of Winterfell.

Earlier that evening, Robb sent the Lannister cousin on his way to King's Landing, with his peace terms. An olive branch had been extended but Robb knew his stipulations would be rejected. The crown would not accept one half of a kingdom. Once, a long time ago, the North was an independent realm, and that attitude was still enduring. Northerners were strong, honorable and driven by a sense of righteousness and justice. How could they bow to a King who killed their liege lord? Robb promised himself he would be a good, kind King. Not like Joffrey. Never like the boy prince.

Robb's long legs brought him quickly to the steps of the Keep, and down the hallway of his mother's ancestor's portraits. Tully portraits looked solemnly at him. He hurried past. The red hair reminded him of Sansa. Seven hells, his _own reflection_ reminded him of Arya.

Maybe that was why Robb had quit shaving. It became too difficult to look at his reflection. His father stared back at him sometimes, teaching him to hold the knife and lather the soap. Then, sometimes, Jon Snow was with him, talking to him meaningfully. Jon would dream of the Night's Watch, and Robb would dream of honor.

No! Robb clenched his teeth and burst into the courtyard. Gods, he couldn't think about those times anymore! It was fruitless to dream. Those days were over. His family was divided and dead, and Robb was going to kill every man responsible.

"No! Grey Wind! No!"

Robb chased the sounds of distress, and came across an interesting scene. Robb was right, Lady Ilia's hair looked nice now that it was washed. The Lady was dressed in a fine riding outfit, and Robb noticed the shimmering cape was thrown across a rock nearby. The lady was kneeling on the ground, arms around Grey Wind's torso. She was trying to pull him away from a bucket of water. The direwolf was not disturbed in the slightest at the tugging, because the lady was such a tiny thing, even the full force of her weight could not budge the beast. Lady Ilia released Grey Wind with a huff. Grey Wind happily lapped the water.

"I needed that, she whispered despairingly. "First, you stole my cat, and now you've taken my water."

Grey Wind stopped, looked at her, and licked her face. The Lady wiped off the droll with a sigh.

"I assure you, my lady, there is no shortage of water in the Riverlands."

She jumped, found him on the edge of the stone clearing, and stood using Grey Wind to support her. She curtseyed, awkwardly since she had no dress, and then bowed, since it made more sense. Grey Wind cocked his head at her. "Your grace… I was simply…"

Robb knew full well what she was doing. His mother had informed him of Lady Ilia's conscription into Lady Stark's services. To what end, he did not know. Even if she could locate Arya, Robb would still have a war to deal with. Robb could not leave his father's death unanswered for. At the same time, Lady Ilia gave his mother new hope. Today, Lady Stark sat taller, spoke with more conviction, and Robb thought that now might be the time to send her to Lord Renly. Of course, sending her away left Robb responsible to Lady Ilia's safety. A responsibility he planned on leaving in Riverrun.

Robb was never clever with girls. Not like Theon. Robb knew his mother wanted Lady Ilia to feel welcome. Robb would marry her at the end of the war, Catelyn made that clear. She had a _useful_ talent, and she was in a horrible predicament. _She will remember that we helped her, and repay us in many ways_. She wasn't dangerous. His mother didn't seem to think so, but Robb was not certain. So, he awkwardly cleared his throat. Robb was not charming. He was not funny, and he certainly was not romantic. Uncomfortable silence descended upon the two. The lady looked anywhere but him. Robb searched for something to say.

"You've lost your cat." A statement, not a question.

"Yes," the lady looked far away, "He's a big, black cat, Like nothing you've ever seen before… well," she glanced at the direwolf, "maybe not you. He's about two-thirds the size of your wolf. Large teeth, yellow eyes, big roar… he ran away during the night, following your Grey Wind. I haven't seen him in days. Have you heard or seen anything?"

"Actually," Robb furrowed his brow, "I believe I have."

"W-what?" Lady Ilia stepped closer, "really? Where? How did he look? Was he hurt? Was he alone?"

Robb held up a hand to stop her questions. She looked at him expectantly. "A few days past, along our march South, I spied Grey Wind running along a distance tree line. I distinctly remember a hulking black shape keeping pace with him. It is a rare sight. There are few things faster on this Earth than my direwolf. The black form was frightened by our approach. Now that you say this, it must have been your cat."

"Echo," she intoned, "I named him Echo."

"Echo," he repeated. "That was one day before the Battle of the Whispering Wood."

"Gods," she kicked the bucket, overturning whatever water was left. "If he was headed in that direction, he could easily have been caught at the battle. No one would think twice about spearing a black boar, why would they think any differently about a black cat, the size of a boar?"

At a loss for words, the two drifted into another awkward silence. This one was not as severe as the last. The tension was reduced when Lady Ilia picked up her book and read quietly. Robb pet Grey Wind affectionately. The direwolf was alarmed that his name had been mentioned so frequently. The Lady righted the bucket and with a smooth motion of her hand, and a whispered word, she directed the water back into its container. Robb saw the water flow underneath his feet, and tracked its movement into the bucket. He wouldn't admit it, but the lady's _talent_ frightened him, and his lack of bravery irked him.

"You've got it then," Robb nodded.

"No… I don't." Ilia lowered her hands, looking sad. "I was just focusing on what I had to do. It's not the same as understanding. If I understood what I had to do, I would not have to put forth all this effort, for so little product. The water would know my will, and act accordingly." She sighed and tugged at her shirt uncomfortable, "fire was so much simpler… passion, anger, expression, and empowerment… that came so easily to me. I craved that power. Water needs a flexible mind, without being lost. I've spent my life being lost. I lost my mother, and my mother lost me. I'm lost to my sister, and I'm lost to my friend. How do I build community, if I don't know it? I've spent my life in a book case!" she screamed in frustration.

Robb was at a loss. What could he say? There weren't any simple answers anymore. The time was past for quick fixes. The King couldn't give the lady a solution or a reason for the world's cruelties.

"Why did you decide to stay?" Robb heard himself asking.

"Why?" Lady Ilia calmed herself, and appeared to process his question carefully. "To assist lady Stark… for the protection your family has kindly, and graciously offered… and…"

"And?" he prodded.

"And… to prove I'm not a wretched monster who's going to turn everyone into a frog." Lady Ilia returned to studying her book. "I'm not evil. The way everyone _looks_ at me, like I'm _dangerous_ and untrustworthy… it upsets me. Now, I have to prove to all these people that I'm not a malicious sorceress… but I'm… I'm... I'm not interested in their political games. I only want to find my sister." She finished lamely, sighing exasperatedly.

"Then…" Robb paused, unsure where it was safe to tread. "Do not stray from your quest. You will succeed, as long as you keep the greater purpose in mind."

Lady Ilia looked at him oddly. Her piercing silver gaze unsettled him. Robb was sure she was reading his soul, like the open book in front of her. He opened and closed his mouth. No words came to him. If only he was talking to Theon, who wouldn't care if Robb swore or babbled. If only he was talking to Jon, or Arya. If only he was talking to his father. Ned Stark always made his son feel welcome in his company.

Struggling under the pressure of her gaze. Robb turned and fled. A war was going on. He could worry about Lady Ilia's opinion later. The clacking of his boots signaled his departure. It was cowardly, but these worries could wait for another day. A King moved with purpose. Still, Robb knew he found the lady's presence unsettling.

"You don't understand!" she called after him, angrily.

Laying down in bed later. Robb's mind rebelled against him. _You don't understand._ Robb did, he really did. He just didn't have the words to describe what he meant all the time. He wasn't gifted with a golden tongue. Robb understood enough. _You don't understand. _Did she think she was the only one struggling? Robb suffered to prove his worth to the world? Robb's father's lifeblood was shed! Men had suffered and men had _died_ for him. _You don't understand_. Robb should never have spoken to Lady Ilia, another woman who would fill him with doubts. He won every battle… so far… but he was losing everything and everyone.

_You don't understand_. Robb sat up and dressed. He would find no solace in sleep tonight.


	10. Chapter 10: On The Move

Chapter Ten: On the Move

Ilia missed Colmar

Colmar used to ride with her. Colmar used to hold her books. Colmar was sweet, funny, and talkative when Ilia had nothing to say. Colmar filled the voids in her heart, and made her feel wanted. The King in the North was a bug compared to Colmar. That cowardly Stark boy left her in the middle of their conversation. He turned tail and fled without a word to signal his departure.

Perhaps Ilia had been too harsh with him, or too open. Something like this wouldn't have happened to her little sister. Arwyn could have easily charmed the King, romancing him by expounding on the flowers and the trees, and other nonsensical pleasantries that Ilia loathed. If Robb Stark didn't like being asked difficult questions than he wasn't going to like being the King of the North.

She did not sleep well after their brief encounter. Ilia woke, after too little sleep, still fuming. Her attitude was not conducive to a calm and collected mind. Abandoning her feeble attempts to manipulate the water from her bucket, Ilia decided instead to test the limits of the "freedom" Lady Stark had given her.

Ilia moved through the camp effortlessly. Smart men recognized a lady when they saw her, and cleared the path while simpler boys were too single mindedly focused on their given task to pay any attention. Ilia passed tent after tent, banner after banner, and all sorts and sizes of men before she broke the edge of the encampment. The Green Trident flowed deep and steady here, reflecting the splendor of the still rising sun. Ilia followed the curve to a thick outburst of tall oaks. She placed a solemn hand on the trunk of a tree, scarred by numerous and brutal sword strokes. Someone had not been happy when they met this tree.

"Have you ever held a sword, my lady?"

Ilia's heart leapt to her throat. She had been followed! The last time a man had followed her into the woods… she lost everything. Steadying herself on the trunk, she raised a fiery palm and turned her head so the stranger could only see her profile.

"No, nor do I care to."

"Oh, put that away. I mean you no harm." Lord Umber took three swift paces towards her and Ilia backed around the tree. "Oh, stop that. You aren't a scared mouse. You have a damn plam full of fire. You and I both know it, here."

Lord Umber took one hand and unhooked his sword. He held out the pommel to her. "Go ahead, try it. See if it suits you."

Ilia stepped closer to accept the longsword. The Lord Umber was a strange man indeed. Looking over his shoulder, she could see the splendor of his sigil decorating the tents nearby. He must have seen her walk past. The sword was much heavier than she anticipated, and taller up close. She stumbled forward under the unexpected weight. "Woah," Greatjon steadied her by the soldier. Curious now, she began to draw the blade with two hands. Ilia could only manage to unsheathe the steel halfway, but her reflection grinned back at her regardless.

"This is beautiful," she remarked. Yet, looking at the marks on the tree, she knew it wasn't suited to her. "But… this type of beauty doesn't fit everyone."

Greatjon nodded gravely and Ilia hefted the sword back into his grip. "Why have you come to the woods, my lord?"

"Oh," he fingered a low handing branch after refastening his sword sheath. "I enjoy the tranquility of the forest country. My land is full of woods like these. Well, not exactly like these," he chuckled at some inside joke, "the South has too little trees, and too many flowers, in my opinion. Now, the winter forest and the heart trees… that is true serenity… red leaves and white bark, and a flint to sharpen my steel on. That is home."

Lord Umber walked as he spoke and Ilia had no choice but to follow. He led her to a trail that had escaped her notice earlier. Why did Ilia insist on walking across country when there were perfectly decent trails to travel on, that didn't muddy and rip her clothing?

"Have you ever seen a heart tree?" he turned to study her.

"No," she admitted. "I've only read about them. The children carved the faces of the old gods onto their trunks, did they not?"

"Aye," Lord Umber nodded approvingly, "they did. Though 'tis a shame my lady has not seen one. To behold the great presence of the old gods is an honor. An honor I'm sure a _sorceress_ might understand."

He stopped and raised an eyebrow. Crossing his arms, Lord Umber looked down on her.

"No," she admitted, "I find, these days, my lord, that I understand close to nothing about this world."

Lord Umber sighed, "probably… Tell me, my lady. How did you come across that unusual talent of yours?"

Ilia turned away. She did not want to reveal her personal story to a man she barely knew. Lord or not. Really, Ilia hardly knew Greatjon Umber. Just the other day Lord Umber held a sword at her neck. Perhaps he had offered it to her, as one might offer an olive branch. Maybe he feared her. He was a bannerman to the King of the North, a man she did not favor in the slightest, and Ilia knew from her father's lessons, that loyalty could be bought.

Yet… another part of her was compelled to trust this strange new character. Silver eyes were so rare, so very rare, and difficult to find in another. Discouraged by Ilia's lack of response, truly she was taking a long time, Lord Umber tried another tactic.

"Your mother, the Lady Frey—"

"Do not call her that," Ilia snapped, "even in death, she remains Lady Annara, _always_."

Greatjon raised his hands in surrender and smiled. "My lady inherited her temper, I see, and her talent for dramatics!" He laughed a hearty laugh, Ilia was not amused, until his words sunk in.

"You… you knew my mother? A northerner?" her jaw dropped. She suddenly saw the Lord in a new light. "What? How? When? Tell me everything."

Greatjon sighed, resuming his treck. He ushered for Ilia to follow him but there was no need. Ilia was hot on his heels. "Aye, I knew her. There's not much to tell. We had a brief romance with one another before our damned duties and obligations muddled everything up. My lady looks very much like her. I knew it when I first saw that mouth and nose. Of course," he fumbled here, dropping all formality, "you don't look at all like the Late Lord Frey, not at all."

"Everyone tells me that," Ilia remarked, almost running into his back when came to a halt, "why did you do stop?"

"We have reached our destination, my lady," Lord Umber sidestepped and grandly arched an arm over the splendor of the scene before them. A short, gnarled, ancient white godswood sentinel stood before her. Blood red leaves rustled in the wind, sending shivers up her spine. There was no face carved in the bark. Ilia touched the trunk and gasped. The tree was smooth and cold, like marble. Lord Umber retreated behind her. She spun around on him.

"Why have you brought me here?" she questioned.

"The old gods are the gods of the North," he said sagely, stroking his beard and peering at her. "My lady cannot hope to wield their power if she does not _try_ to understand them. Sit," he commanded, "listen, breathe. The answer will come to you."

Ilia stared at him, "the answer?"

Lord Umber gave her a look. Ilia understood that look. It was the look a genius might give to a simpleton. The answer… ah, of course, like it was an astoundingly obvious concept to grasp. Ilia sighed and did as he said. She flopped to the ground in front of the tree and leaned her back against the trunk. Greatjon nodded, satisfied.

"Good, now close your eyes. Listen and breathe…"

Ilia did as he said, closing her eyes. Behind closed lids, she heard the squelching of his boots as he moved away.

"Focus."

She focused on the space between her eyes and the feel of the trunk against her back. It was nice weather today, and she did not felt too cold or too hot. The smell of the forest was very calming, and Ilia inhaled and exhaled deeply. She didn't know _what_ exactly she was focusing on, but she suddenly felt very close to it.

"Listen…"

The rustling of the leaves were amplified painfully.

"…breathe."

Ilia inhaled and exhaled slowly, and Lord Umber's footsteps got further and further away.

"… in and out…"

Ilia was back in the desert.

She didn't know how she got there, and she didn't know when. The last thing she remembered was the sound of the wind, and the creaking of the branches. Now, if she focused, she could hear horses snorting and smell exotic spices. Ilia felt her heart pounding.

"… fire cannot harm the dragon…"

Waves crashed on wet stone. Ilia marveled at the sight of the Twins, two short, fat towers of dark rock in the night. Lights flickered in the windows, and a shout near the gates drew her gaze. A ceremony was taking place. A large crowd of soldiers, gentlemen, lords and ladies was drawn toward a series of tents. The smell of cooked meat and ale drifted to her nostrils. In the distance, she heard the musicians playing _The Rains of Castamere_. A feeling of dread filled her.

An outpouring of soldiers came from the Twins. Ilia saw fire out of the corner of her eyes. Suddenly, her body was swept away from the camps. She fought to stay at the scene, wondering at what was unfolding. Before the water enveloped her, she saw a wall of fire.

Gasping, Ilia woke.

Her neck and shoulders were stiff, as if she had been sitting still for a long, long time. She gently woke her muscles and cringed. Every day seemed to bring her a new bodily pain…this time, her neck. Ilia rolled her head, catching sight of the sky. The light had faded from the world. It was nearly evening, and she had been missing most of the day. She jumped to her feet.

"Shit," she swore. A swear Colmar was prone to favoring. Catelyn Stark would have her head. The Lady Stark was not a woman to be ignored. She would demand an explanation. It was Lord Umber's fault, really. She raced through tree branches, and the thistle of the woods, stopping only once, to catch her breath. Ilia broke the treeline and made it safely into camp.

The camp was moving. Horses fought being bridled. Knights and squires shouted after one another. Smoke filled the air as each fire pit was abruptly drenched in water. The tents fell in tandem. Ilia swiveled left and right, searching for the Frey sigil. She found it, just as the flag was brought down. She ran in that direction.

The camp was moving, the army was mobile. Robb Stark had finally decided on a battle plan and he was taking the entirety of the North with him. Damn. Ilia leapt over a barrel and nearly ran into four Karstark men. She needed to find Stevron. She needed to know where the army was headed. She needed to tell him to look for Arwyn, and Echo. Someone still needed to be looking.

"Lady Ilia!" A firm hand grasped her shoulder. "Still yourself! Where do you think you're going?"

Walder Rivers had too strong of a grip to break free.

"We've been looking for you for the past few hours!" Olyvar appeared next to him. He was dressed as the King's squire. "King Robb and Lady Stark request that you await their return in Riverrun. You'll be safe there, with plenty to do."

"You need to make your way, now. Move, Ilia."

"I'm not being left behind—"

"There's no time—"

"The King asks—"

"Where are you going?" Ilia was being pushed toward the looming castle at Riverrun. "What happening? Have we been attacked?"

"Don't worry, you're perfectly safe." Walder Rivers blue cloak disappeared into the crowd of the army. Ili was momentarily blinded by the setting sun.

"I don't _care_ if I'm safe." Gods be damned. Would no one listen to her? Was she doomed to this incompetence forever. She could spit fire and they would not take her with them.

Suddenly she as lifted into the air. Bravery forgotten, Ilia yelped in surprise, and wailed on her captor with closed fists. She was seated on a horse behind someone and told to shut up.

"You want to prove your mettled don't you?" Lord Umber growled.

And Ilia was riding away.


	11. Chapter 11: Tricks Up Sleeves

Chapter Eleven: Tricks up Sleeves

It was a beautiful day at the Twins. The skies were clear, the river was calm, and the cocks in the henhouse woke Colmar at exactly the right time. He donned his favorite pale blue shirt today, and happily hopped to the archery range to meet Wendel, who had decided a fortnight ago that his aim needed work. Of course, it was all a distraction.

Truthfully, Colmar missed Ilia.

They used to practice magic together. Well, Ilia practiced, and Colmar read the book. The book was something their mother left for Ilia. Ilia could never find it though, because she hadn't been old enough to use it. Now that she was wiser, the fourth drawer had come unlocked, and the book was theirs. Colmar was sure that the gods had choreographed it all. Mother's spirit still lingered.

Today, Wendel was dressed in loose mail and his boots were lined in silver and blue. Freys lined the match field. It was a daily spectacle. Colmar would shoot, and Wendle would shoot similarly, until they had made all manner of designs on the targets across the field. The other day, they had made a wolf's head. The guards laughed heartily at that. The knights scowled. They did not like wolves. Too northern. Their younger brother, Waltyr, requested a fish. He liked fish. He liked hunting them most. If he had not been born a lord's son, he might have been a fisherman. Well, since he had been born Walder _Frey's _son, he might still get to be.

"There are too many Frey's, and not enough lord's daughters. You'll all be farmer's after the fifth son…" the stablemaster had told him once, when he was six. He never forgot that.

The pressure was ever present. Either make a name for yourself as a knight, or be forgotten as Walder Frey's twenty plus son. That was why Robb Stark's war was ever so appealing for the younger Freys. Here was a chance to become a squire, or a great knight. Here was a Frey's chance.

Yet, Colmar hated the war. It took Ilia and away. She was his substitute mother and his sister. Arwyn was not missed too sorely. She was a silly girl, and never had time for Colmar. She never believed his fairy tales, but they had fascinated Ilia. Wendel and Waltyr, at least, commiserated with Colmar. Wendel agreed that Ilia was more sensible, but missed Arwyn because she used to sit and read with him. Waltyr liked Arwyn better, because she cooked for him, and Ilia never cooked.

Colmar told him that was a stupid reason to miss Arwyn and he cried. He apologized later. They really shouldn't pick favorite siblings but… they had so many, it was difficult not to.

"Young Colmar?" the Maester's aged voice managed to break their focus on the target. Wendel's arrow whizzed through the air and landed with a thunk, lending their fish an eye. He laughed sardonically, then eyed the Maester.

"What would you like Maester? A recitation of the history of the Andals? Perhaps a masterful rendition of the Tale of Dragonfire?"

"I doubt you could manage that, young Wendel Frey. Even if you had a bard's voice instead of a toad's."

Waltyr laughed until he cried. Wendel took the insult in good humor as he and the Maester were always making jests at one another. Colmar did not understand it. He thought the jokes might have been hurtful, but Wendel was made of stone. His heart was as cold as his humor. Wendel smirked mercilessly at the jibe. As always, he did not hesitate in firing back. Wendel was never uncertain with words.

"That's alright, you would not hear it for all the white hair in your ears. I shall lend you my sword to clear it out, and hope it accidentally strikes your brain."

"A generous offer, but if your sword is as sharp as your wit, I fear I shall always be deaf. Regardless, Colmar, you have been summoned."

"Summoned?" Colmar gulped visibly. Wendel gave the Maester a dark look.

"Summoned by who?" Wendel asked, his voice was deeper and darker than Colmar ever heard it. Waltyr had stopped grinning and looked serious all of a sudden. Everyone looked serious all of a sudden. Even the sky became serious, and clouds appeared. The sun did not shine on the Twins anymore.

"Your Lord Father."

"Ah," Wendel moved to return his bow and slung off his pack of arrows. The Maester's arm stopped him. "Lord Frey summons Colmar alone… with no other brothers. These are the Lord's commands and it is beyond you to defy him, young Wendel. Noble though your intentions are."

Wendel reared as if he had been slapped. Colmar was uncertain if his father, or the Maester implying he was noble, offended him. Both, he suspected. Waltyr looked at Colmar fearfully. His eyes were big and round, as only a child's could be. Wendel handed his bow to the range master anyway, and placed a hand on Colmar's shoulders. He was telling him something, but Colmar was suddenly so filled with fear, he could not hear. Colmar only heard a distant ringing.

"—must be obedient at all times. If you do the task right the first time, he shall not bother you again for a long while. He is only irked by disobedience. Walder Rivers is always questioning him, which is why he gets so angry. Do not ask questions, those bother him most of all. Colmar, you understand? Colmar—"

All of a sudden, they were in front of the throne room. When did they get here? Didn't they have more bridges to cross, more stairs to climb? Colmar was seized by fear. It must have shown. Wendel squeezed his shoulder tightly. Colmar knew he was trying to lend him strength, but it only reminded him how weak and little he was. Wendel was so much bigger than he was. All of his brothers were so much bigger and more important. Why couldn't his father have asked for any of them?

"I'm sure it's no matter, Colmar. You have given him absolutely no reason to be angry with you. He is most likely curious. He calls us all in from time to time. Perhaps he is curious as to what type of man you are growing to be."

"Can't you come with me?" Colmar wished his voice was deep like Wendel's. Wendel sounded like a man already.

"No."

It was a firm denial. Wendel gave him one more squeeze, and left. Colmar breathed in and out of his nose. His heart pounded as he opened the old wooden doors slowly.

Lord Frey sat as he always did. A table and chairs had been brought to the room, and a casual gathering was taking place. A few of Wendel's older brothers and bastard brothers were in the room. Mostly the older, quiet ones that Lord Frey did not care for one way or the other. Catching sight of Colmar, Walder Frey waved a gnarled hand. Closer, he beckoned. Colmar's legs moved of his own accord. His footsteps sounded louder than they should, and Colmar winced internally. Lord Frey hated unnecessary noise. Yet, this Lord Frey paid no mind. The Lady seated at his left patted the seat next to her.

Walder Frey leaned forward and looked him up and down.

"Which number is this?"

"The twentieth, my lord," Lady Joyeuse replied.

"I think I promised the twentieth to the Faith, did I not? Close to the septa, isn't he?"

"I am not certain, my lord, the septon would need to be consulted. He does not take them too young."

"Ah," Lord Frey smacked his lips. "No matter, I shall see to him after I have seen to the others. Tell me boy, you remember that black haired sister of yours?"

"Il—" Wendel's voice interrupted his response. _Don't correct him, even if he's wrong, or forgets something. He does not take well to correcting._ "Yes."

"Hmm," Lord Frey most likely heard his initial protest, but liked that he stopped himself. _He likes that we fear him_.

"And you spoke with her before she left?"

"N-no," Colmar stammered, "she didn't tell me she was leaving. I knew nothing."

"Hmph, lies, no doubt. You two are always conspiring together, so this one tell me," he jerked an yellow thumb toward one of his elder bastard brothers. "You knew when and where she was going, so tell me. What are their plans? I can't have loose daughters getting pregnant and sullying the Frey name. We need women in this family to barter with other Houses. Tell me!"

Colmar jumped and trembled a little, to his great shame.

"Even if he did know, he could not stop her. That one has a mind of her own."

"She shouldn't," Lord Frey snarled. "You're all my seed, so you're all my mind."

"Sweet, perhaps a gentler approach is required. You've scared the poor boy." Ah, Joyeuse was always trying to be kind.

"Hmm, perhaps." Lord Frey scratched his bald heard. Some shuffling was heard behind him, and a few of his brothers left the room. Were they called away?

"What do you like, twentieth?"

Colmar froze. What did he like? What was that supposed to mean?

"You're a boy. Do you like swords? Swords! Or bows? Bows! Speak." Lord Frey was not as harsh sounding, and Joyeuse filled the cup in front of him with red liquid. He was handed the cup, and Colmar sipped it. It was wine, as he suspected. "Do you like wine?"

"It's alright," Colmar said quietly, and gained some nerve. "I like books."

"Books, ho!" Lord Frey cackled. "Your _mother_ liked books too. Don't believe your older sister. I know she thinks I did away with her, but your mother's love of books was her ultimate end. You could become a Maester, did you know? A Maester with many long chains to choke your neck until you're as old as I am!"

Lord Frey cackled. Colmar did not think it funny. He liked the Maester at the Twins, and enjoyed his stories. Colmar liked hearing the chains clink in the library, whenever the Maester was about. It was a comforting sound. Sometimes, Ilia and the Maester had argued, but the Maester always won against his sister. He was masterful in arguments, yet never unkind. Colmar would have liked to be like the Maester, who was so _unlike_ Lord Frey.

"But you like reading books… I've heard. I can get you many books. We could send you to Winterfell, to read the library there. I'm sure they have some stories about old magic. Don't think I don't know about this. Never you forget, this is _my House_, and these are _my towers._ There is nothing that goes on under these skies that I do not know about."

"Let me tell you. While you've been daydreaming about leaves in your hair, and old enchantments that make your hair green, there's been a _war_ outside. A war! Your brothers could be dying. Your House could be dying!"

"Speak, and I'll get you books."

Joyeuse never stopped stroking his arm, but Colmar found it annoying now. A bribe for his sisters? What would Lord Frey do, once he acquired the two daughters who shamed him?

"They told me many things," Colmar started talking, and didn't stop, each lie coming as easily as the last. "Ilia said north, and Arwyn said south. King's Landing, they wanted to go. They both wanted to try the silk from the harbor and the wine from the South. Then they said North to the Wall, where they would be safe from the war. In the end, I think they settled on finding a boat."

"…to try the iron men between their legs, no doubt." Lord Frey sat back with a whump. His cloak fluttered around him. "Foolish girls, can't make a decision, running about all willy-nilly… dreams about princes … princes… kings…."

His words rambled, one thought running into the next. Not for the first time, Colmar wondered about his father's sanity. He insulted his daughters numerous times and promised Colmar books and things. The Maester would be spoken to, and Colmar had explicit instructions to continue his studies.

"And the sword and bow. Keep with that boy. You'll be fine. You'll be fine… good lad."

Joyeuse ushered him away, and he found Wendel on the bridge, waiting for him.

"Well, what did the old codger want?"

"The question is, _who_ did he want, and what are _we_ going to do about it?"

They traveled in the dark. The northmen were unafraid of the cold that accompanied the night. It was nothing like the frigid north, as Umber's men were apt to remind her. The cold of the wolf's wood was a biting cold. "This cold is like an infant's teeth… just gnawing," Greatjon growled. "Nothing too serious."

Ilia rode with the Umber men. The Frey's two thousand spears remained oblivious to their lady's presence. Her brother, Ser Stevron, led the army of the Crossing. Her knight brothers could also be found along the lines of men. Yet, they never saw her. She supposed she remained anonymous enough. Most likely, they were not looking for her. You cannot find someone you're not looking for. There was enough ground to cover, and enough work to keep them busy. Even if they saw a young woman with long dark hair, they would not think to look closer. Some women followed the encampment at the end of the line anyway. These women were with with the septa and septon, seeking to heal the injured and administer rations.

Robb Stark and Grey Wind headed the column. They traveled off the road. With so large a company though, it was no small wonder they went unchallenged across the countryside. Several nights, she thought that the King had seen her. Once, she was forced to hide underneath Lord Umber's travel table while the King and the Lord talked battle strategies. Umber scolded her greatly about that. Ilia responded with fire to his beard, and requested a tent of her own since she had been sleeping in the back of a cart. Ilia had gone to his tent for warmth, since Lord Umber coveted several bear furs while he traveled. He found a small tent the next day, but she was required to share it with an elderly septa.

In secret, she worked with a basin of water. _Ak_ was a difficult word to master. Perhaps it was contrary to her nature. Nonetheless, she worked hard to understand it. Ilia had made great progress after Lord Umber's advice in the woods that day. When she felt she was losing concentration, she would sit and breath and listen… it seemed to help. Once, she had almost entered a trance, and the water rippled with light. Excited as she was, Ilia lost concentration, and the image faded. Her small success fueled her further.

They were headed to the Crag. The seat of House Westerling was loyal to Tywin Lannister. Thus, it was their target. Being just north of Casterly Rock, Ilia wondered about the wisdom of storming such a castle.

"Ha! Ruin is more like it," Lord Umber's friend, Smalljon, snorted. "The crag will be ours in no time, my lady. Even without that pretty fire of yours. The Westerlings have no army, and no money. Hell, half the land is empty from what I've heard. The King will storm this hold, and strike fear in the Lion."

They came upon it in the night. The Crag had tall, dark walls, manned by tall, dark archers. It was the archer's slits that ran up and down the stone, that Ilia feared. She knew great men could fall from a single, well aimed arrow. The archers could rain hell on Robb Stark's army even before they reached the inner courtyard. Umber saw her looking up and down the walls with trepidation.

"Don't worry lass, we're not planning on charging the gates, if that's what you're wondering…" he whispered. The northmen were lined in the trees, as they so loved to do. Grey Wind ran along the backs of the men, weaving in and out of legs and tree trunks. The moon was obscured by clouds. A good thing, so they told her. The enemy would not see the Stark army approach.

"What are you planning?"

"They can't shoot us if we're _on_ the wall, can they?" Umber's looked roguish and gleeful. Lord Umber enjoyed a good fight, and walls were always a challenge.

"What should I do?" Ilia asked, fingering the knife on her belt.

"What should you do? Hang back, my lady. There's no reason to get too close," he shook his head. "Stay with the women at the back of the party."

Ilia's heart clenched and her vision went red. She seethed. "You brought me… to leave me?! I am no weakling, you said so yourself! I'm no stranger to death!"

"Death, aye. But War?" Lord Umber's eyes went misty and distant, "…yes. We are all strangers to war. Nothing can prepare you for the stench of death. Northing can brace you for the rot of human bodies. The heat of the fire and the fear in your bones drives you forward. Not love or loyalty, or bravery or honor. We're all cowards in war. There's chaos all around you and you can barely tell you enemy from your friend," he stooped to meet her eyes, silver on silver. "I could ask you to go, or I could ask you to wait. You will know when you're needed, Lady Ilia. Of that, I can assure you. You will know."

He left her then. Black Walder passed her on her way out. Him and Smalljon were carrying metal hooks, attached to long chains. Grappling hooks, she learned. They planned to scale the walls of the Crag. Once they scaled the walls, the gates would be opened, and Robb would storm the castle.


	12. Chapter 12: On the Edges

Chapter Twelve: On the Edges

Waiting was torture. Ilia could hear the clink and the clank of the claws as they reached the tops of the walls. She could see shadowy figures climbing the stone. Ilia heard the first cry of alarm, and the alarms follow. She saw the first men fall, and wondered if it was Smalljon, who she had seen moving in that direction only a half hour before.

Ilia paced behind a healer's cart. The elderly septa whom she had shared a tent with gave her a contemptuous look. Ilia tried to ignore her, but frowned. How could the old woman be so calm? She supposed the toad had a reason to be. It didn't matter who won the battle, or what colors each soldier wore. A healer was a healer on the battlefield, and she would have a job regardless of which army was victorious.

Men's screams reached her. Were the doors open yet? She was too far away to see and the moon had hidden behind the clouds.

Was it midnight? Was it early morning? When would the sun come?

Was Stevron in good health?

Fear and panic clenched her heart. Ilia paced some more. She clenched and unclenched her fists. The healer motioned for the cart to move.

Ilia was closer to the outskirts of the battle now. In the dark, they amputated a soldier's arm. It was swollen and looked liked someone had crushed it with a hammer. She saw the sigil of the two towers on his breast as she tied the turniquet. A man she had most likely walked past on the bridge of the Crossing. He screamed and fainted. That was a good thing, the septa told her. It was worse when they were awake for the sawing of the bone.

Ilia cauterized the wound with a flame from her hand. The septa nodded approvingly.

They moved on to another man. A lion was on this one's breast. His leg had been trampled. The bone was set right, and he begged for poppy milk. He cried and pleaded, but they had none. So, Ilia hit his head and he passed out. The septa did not approve of this, but Ilia thought it was an improvement. Besides, he was a Lannister. They could manhandle Lannisters. Robb Stark would have approved.

Ilia's arms up to her elbow were covered in blood. She was responsible for cauterizing wounds. It was something the septa demanded of her. They did not have flint, and it would prevent the spread of infection, and gangrene. Ilia didn't know what gangrene was, but the way the septa mentioned it made Ilia think it was a very bad illness.

The fighting was past the gates now. The moon was out again, and Ilia extinguished the fire in her palm that she had been holding for light.

"Keep that up, girl!"

But she couldn't, Ilia was exhausted. She shook her head 'no' and in doing so, saw the sigil of the Crossing distantly. A bloodied flag in the distance, near the ocean front. Rearing on his hind legs, her brother's horse fell to a pikeman. She watched the scene in horror. Stevron fell in slow motion. He had been cast from his saddle, and the pikeman drew his sword menacingly.

"STEVRON!"

Ilia ran. Her heart was beating mercilessly, her legs were on fire. She tripped over a strewn shield and righted herself with her vision blurring.

"STEVRON!"

Walder Rivers was nearby, but he would not reach their eldest brother in time. He ran instead, to her side. Her mind was working furiously. Ilia's palms raised and she a cast a wave of fire in front of her, to clear the path of Lannister soldiers. The red men yelped and jumped out of the way, but two men charged her. Fearfully, she backtracked behind Walder. Her bastard brother raised his longsword with two hands. He never looked more heroic than when he faced those two men. He cut the head off one, and skewered the other. They were getting closer to the water.

"ILIA?"

Ilia ignored him. She moved for the fallen horse, and the body that was next to it. Stevron gasped and blood trickled down the left side of his mouth. His eyes widened, but then they focused on the approaching figures behind her. Ilia was surrounded. There was no choice.

Looking down in defeat, she noted the sand underneath her boots.

For a moment, she breathed and listened. The sound of the waves and the smell of fish assaulted her senses. And, for that instant, she entered another time. Ilia was little again, and Stevron had brought her and the other little ones to King's landing. And… even though they were far away. Even though they were in a foreign place, surrounded by foreign people, and were completely unsure of themselves… Ilia had been safe. She was a Frey. And the Frey name had kept her safe.

Wendel had bought her an iced treat from the market, and Arwyn had braided her hair. Stevron let her sit on his shoulders, and she could see higher than everyone in the crowd. Then she remembered home. The Twins were never a prison until the last few days of her stay. It was still the home of her childhood. It was a place for her family, like Colmar and Wendel and Arwyn.

Stevron was a symbol of that family. Stevron had always been their hope. For one day, when the Late Walder Frey died, he would ascend to lordship. He would be a respectable and kind lord, the lord they all wanted, the lord that would elevate the Frey's status in the world. He was beloved by his family and people, in a way that Lord Walder Frey never would be. Because… Stevron loved them…

"_Ak._"

Raising her arms, Ilia felt the water moving with her will. She brought the waves down, and flooded the area. She shifted from form to form, in a tantric state. It was as if a blind had been lifted, and she could see herself moving outside of her body. Each pose was perfect, as it had been drawn in her mother's grimoire. Ilia pushed and pulled the water, weaving it around the place where she stood.

If the soldiers were swept up, she didn't care. Walder Rivers crouched behind her, and picked up Stevron, he yelled her name.

"ILIA!"

Her focus broke. Ilia dropped her arms and cried in agony, her strength left her. She stumbled and fell next to Walder. Stevron gasped and gasped and coughed blood.

Walder unstrapped his breastplate, and Ilia heard a nauseating squelching sound as it was lifted. A whole had taken over Stevron's abdomen. It was a fatal wound, and he would not live much longer. The look on Walder Rivers face was grim. Ilia crawled closer, to hold Stevron's face.

"I-Ilia…? Wald—" he gasped. Walder River gripped his forearm in a gesture of support. Stevron's eyes flickered. The blood had left his face. He was pale and white, and shaking all over. His left leg twitched suddenly.

"… W-watch…" Gasp, "… watch them." Stevron sputtered his last words. "… the children…"

Walder nodded sagely. Ilia was mute. Stevron's eyes closed, and he took a great, shuddering breath. Then, his grip failed. His leg stopped twitching. His heart stopped beating, and the heir to the Frey lordship passed. Walder Rivers cried. There were no soldiers around them. The battlefield was oddly still. It seemed that Stevron had waited until the last minute to leave the living world. The sun's first rays lit the ocean. The Crag was smoking.

Ilia felt herself cry, but no sound came from her mouth. In a split second decision, in which she knew she could not waste this opportunity, Ilia chose a word.

"Zik." _Lightning_.

Distantly, the Stark standard replaced the banner of House Westerling. The North had won the battle. Lightning streaked the sky.


	13. Chapter 13: Hate Me Later

Chapter Thirteen: Hate Me Later

The Crag was taken. Walder Rivers brought an unconscious Ilia to the infirmary established in the lower ring of the fortress. Having collapsed under exhaustion, she was left to rest. A Frey guard stood dutifully at her bedside, at every hour. A majority of the time Walder Rivers occupied the position. He only left to sleep, when ordered by Ser Emmon Frey, and returned soon after. The bastard took his meals at her side, and napped in the afternoon hours.

In her dreams, Ilia saw the silver haired woman. She traveled the desert with a company of brown skinned, starving individuals. She witnessed the butchering of a horse, and the departure of three riders. A waste stretched out before them, and heat radiated from the ground. In dreams, and in life, a fever took her. The fever lasted one day, and abruptly ended when a rider returned with news of a not so distant city. Ilia woke, and although she was under the impression that she had slept for weeks, she had only slept a day.

"It was so real…" Ilia told Rivers, who held her hands preciously. "It felt so real…"

"'Twas nothing, dear Ilia," he smiled, "you are alive and well and my heart rejoices to see you awake again."

He smiled radiantly and embraced her. Ilia tried to shake off the hug, aware of the onlookers of sick soldiers and healers. "I'm fine… honestly Rivers…"

"You weren't! You collapsed on the field," he drew back and shook his head mournfully, "…after Stevron… I thought I lost you too. You showed great capability and power, to be sure. But Ilia, you overexerted yourself. I carried you as far as I could, I don't know how… I was so exhausted from the battle. But, I came across the Karstark Lord who first captured you. He took one look at you in my arms, and directed me here. I think these are mostly his men in the infirmary. Perhaps he wanted to make amends for your initial capture and…" he shook his head again, "…no matter. Tell me, sister, how did you come to be here? In the battle? You were supposed to be in Riverrun."

Ilia cleared her throat uncomfortably and Rivers poured her a glass of water. She took a long drink, hoping to buy time before answering. Would she betray Lord Umber's trust if she told her brother the truth? Greatjon had already helped her so much.

"I couldn't be left behind, I jumped on a healer's caravan and traveled alone. No one recognized me, I was in no danger—"

"No danger?! No DANGER?" Rivers stood, appearing more menacing than she had ever seen him. "You could have been shot, you could have died, you could have—could have… gods, Ilia!" he collapsed back into his seat, his temporary passion forgotten.

Rivers looked so distraught, Ilia placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and found it to be shaking. "I could have lost you, Ilia! Ilia… you could have been _raped_ by any one of those soldiers. What if we lost the battle, and they took you as part of the spoils of war."

He whispered the last part severely. Ilia recoiled her hand. Images of The Deer, Arwyn, Grizzle, and the mishap at the river came back to her. She felt the two fingers of The Deer slip near her chest, and the heaviness of his hand pressing on her throat. She recalled the flames that consumed her sister's assailant, and Echo's ferocious roar before ripping the arm off Grizzle.

"Have you… have you any word about Arwyn?"

"None," Rivers took a shuddering breath, finally meeting her eyes again. "But…"

"But we may have found someone, or some_thing_ familiar to you," Lord Umber's voice reverberated in the wing of the sickbay. His broad, tall frame nearly stretched to the ceiling, and it took him a mere three steps before he reached her side. Greatjon took her left hand and placed a chaste kiss on the knuckle. "Glad to see you well, my lady, but I'm afraid you may not have much time to rest."

Ilia looked behind him. Two Stark guards, unfamiliar to her, watched the scene, feigning disinterest. Men sent by the King. "No matter," Ilia said slowly, "…as I woke, I felt my strength come back to me in full."

Ilia tossed her bed sheets aside, and found to her great embarrassment that someone had replaced her fine tunic and breeches with a simple, brown and green dress. She prayed that whoever had changed her clothing was a woman. Those clothes were a gift from Lady Catelyn and she _would_ speak with someone about them. However, there was no time to search for them. She quickly found her nice leather boots, and slipped them on. Rivers lent her a hand to help her stand, but she waved it aside. Ilia had only fatigued herself, she wasn't an _invalid_.

"Good," Lord Umber nodded in approval, "our first task is to determine whether that crazy black beast is yours… and, if he is, whether to set it loose in the fort. If he isn't… well…"

The lord turned on his heel and led Ilia, Rivers, and the two guards, out of the small hospital wing. Ilia passed some ailing soldiers on their way. Many were sleeping, having received milk of the poppy to ease their pain. Others were moaning and some called out to the passing party. A few beds were empty and the past inhabitants left only bloodied sheets.

Lord Umber took them through a maze of hallways. They climbed steadily up a set of stairs, and reached a larger dirt courtyard. Ilia eyes were drawn to the large stone gates that were swung wide open. Those must have been the gates the scaling party opened, and the same gates that Robb Stark charged. Thirty to fifty bodies were being piled in a grassy portion of the square, but Rivers blocked her view.

"I thought the bodies had been cleared," he growled at the Lord.

"Can't do everything at once, I'm afraid, there were more pressing matters…" Lord Umber gave the bastard a quizzical look. "_You can _pile them and burn them all if you wish, otherwise shut your mouth about it. Either way, it can't be done in a day. The lady understands, does she not?"

"I do," Ilia nodded, watching the strange funeral in front of her, "nothing can prepare you for war, but I do understand that _now_, Lord Umber."

His eyes met her intensely, but stubborn as she was, Ilia refused to look away. Eventually, he turned to lead them away from the burning bodies. "This way, over here…" the Lord led them to an assortment of cages kept near the left guardhouse of the gates. One, large, dark iron cage caught her eye in particular. A black predator paced back and forth within.

A celebratory roar greeted her ears.

"ECHO!" Ilia ran toward the iron contraption. She grasped the bars of the prison and reached a hand out to stroke the head of her longtime friend. Echo pranced toward her joyously, and pressed his head and body into her hand. He circled on his feet, contentedly allowing her to reach every inch of his long body. The familiar silky fur felt like a balm on her soul.

Echo's hind right foot was bound to a shackle on the inside of the cage. His prison was small, but obviously the largest dog cage in the Crag. Looking at his face now, Ilia could see a large scar over his right eye. His golden yellow orbs looked beseechingly at her.

"What happened to him?"

"Don't really know…" Umber scratched his beard. "I reckon the Crag men found him. He was locked in here before we stormed. It was a queer scene when we scaled the fortress wall. He must have escaped the same night we besieged the fortress. When we reached the courtyard, he had already killed his captives, and he just sat there in the middle of the bloody carnage, licking his chomps! Almost charged him, but since he wasn't moving, I gave the cat a chance to prove himself. Took one look at Smalljon and me, smelled us good he did, and just trotted right back in the cage. Not really sure of his motivations at the time, so we shackled him… as a precaution of course, my lady."

Greatjon fussed with his belt and moment, and victoriously presented her with a silver key.

"He _is_ the cat you've been looking for, aye?"

"Yes!" Ilia quickly grabbed the key and opened the cage. She unshackled Echo and the cat lovingly pushed against her with the weight of his body. She led him outside, and inspected his arms and legs. He seemed alright, and since she didn't know what she was doing, Ilia let him go.

Echo circled around her several times, seemingly making _his _inspection. He nudged her once, twice, and satisfied with his findings, collapsed at her feet.

Rivers laughed, "a lazy cat is a lazy cat, no matter how large or ferocious, eh, my friend?"

The big cat gave him a neutral look, and yawned, showing his large canine teeth. Lord Umber shivered uncomfortably. "Well, that's settled then. I'll let the men know. Onto other matters… if you will follow me. The King has been asking for you."

They received some shocked and curious looks from the residents of the Crag, now that Echo trotted alongside Ilia. Unfazed by the stares, the big cat looked straight ahead, glancing at Ilia from time to time, as if to remind himself that she was there. It was just like old times. Umber led them higher into the Crag. As they climbed stairs, the halls got clearer and brighter, and the soldiers and servants thinned out. Soon, they reached the uppermost level of the Crag.

On the top level, there were no more servants, and no soldiers save for two guards. They stood outside an outwardly ordinary room. "Inside," Lord Umber gestured. Curious, Ilia entered.

The room was very spacious, and there were several large windows opposite the bed and door. The windows afforded a beautiful view of the ocean. One lone figure dominated the room. The tall, lithe body of Robb Stark lay immobile underneath the rich red covers of a double canopy bed. His face was paled, and he bore no crown. His red-brown hair was stuck to his forehead, and slick with sweat. He was unshaved. This was the first time Ilia had ever seen Robb Stark without armor. He looked so astoundingly human, it almost shocked her. As she entered, shivers took the King's body.

A young Maester was at his bedside, along with a woman Ilia did not recognize. She might have guessed a Westerling, judging by the superior cloth of her dress. She wore a black veil, in mourning, no doubt, for the men of the Crag. She looked up when Ilia entered, and nervously stood. The young Maester immediately sought out Lord Umber.

"My lords and ladies," the woman curtseyed.

Lord Umber ignored her, but Ilia returned the curtsey politely. The lord began to whisper furiously with the Maester, and they spoke of the King's condition.

An arrow wound, Ilia learned. Robb Stark took an arrow in the arm during his successful storm. It seemed to be nothing, and did not affect his siege of the castle. The King had waved off any attention. Late last night though, the wound festered. He fell ill this morning, and has continued to deteriorate through the day. The woman, she learned, was Jeyne Westerling, who assisted the Maester against her parents' will. Jeyne Westerling told Ilia that the King had asked for her multiple times. Why? Ilia did not know and neither did Lady Jeyne. The Maester had done everything he could for the injury, and urged them to approach a "wait and see" method.

"Any more medicine may weaken the body. The King is young, and strong. His body will rally against this wound…"

Ilia walked around the bed, while listening to the Maester's expert opinion. She curiously approached the King's side. Ilia and the King might not have started off on the right foot, but she never wished for him to suffer. His body trembled and he moaned, tossing his head. Ilia recalled a time, two years ago, when Colmar and Arwyn had come down with the sickness. They were confined to their beds, and moaned much the same way. The Crossing had been so ill, Ilia had had to drop her study of magic, and watch them because the Maester had been stretched so thin.

She remembered that her brother and sister begged for water. Looking on the bedside, she found a basin of water. It was cool to the touch. Ilia sat down in the vacated seat of Jeyne Westerling, and delicately began to summon the water to her hands. A moan from the bed disrupted her efforts. Ilia dropped the water into the basin.

"… L-lady Ilia…" Robb Stark's blue eyes were piercing as he found her. "Please… I know you can…"

"Your grace," Ilia reached forward, stilling his hand, which reached for her. "You are very ill, please conserve your energy—"

"No!" Robb Stark gritted his teeth stubbornly. "No… I'm sorry."

Ilia furrowed her brow. "Sorry? You're sick, it's not your fault. I would blame the archer…"

The King of the North gave a sadistic chuckle, which turned to a gasp. His chin quivered, but his fists clenched. Ilia knew that look. Her brother Wendel gave her that look from time to time. Robb was ashamed to look so weak in front of her. "No… I'm sorry for before… Lady Ilia, my mother told me… she said you had a power. I'm asking you, please, help me!"

Ilia flinched. "I know! I know I have given you no reason to like me." He shivered here, "I'm not very good with women… gods."

Robb dissolved into a silent mutter, which may have been due to his fever. Ilia leaned forward to hear him. His eyes met hers, and his gaze froze her to her seat. "I _don't_ understand you and I shouldn't have doubted you. I'm sorry. Please… you can hate me later. Winter is coming, Ilia, and we need to be strong. We need to rely on each other… and I am a fool! I have already earned your dislike and it was not my intention. I should have encouraged you that night, instead of leaving as I did. We must rely on each other… Winter is coming… we need to be strong."

His whisper was so ardent, and so sincere. Ilia felt awful, all of a sudden. Looking back, she certainly had not been easy to speak to. Perhaps they were more alike than she thought. They both made awful first impressions. Remembering that her hand still rested on his, she squeezed his fingers.

"It's alright," she whispered back, "I'm a fool too. We can be fools together, you and I."

Robb Stark let out a relieved sigh. "Now… heal this wound! I am tired of this fever and shivers. I believe you can, Lady Ilia. Just as my mother believes you can find my sisters, I believe you can heal this arm—"

Another shiver took him, and he closed his eyes. The grimace on his face was enough to tell Ilia that he was in pain. Rolling back the sleeve, she gingerly exposed the arrow wound.

The hole itself was not very large. It was actually very small. However, the area around the wound was puckered. The skin was discolored, and an angry red. The wound was full of pus, and a yellow green discharged leaked from it. Ilia gasped quietly at the sight. The Maester saw her movements, and protested.

"My lady! Do not do so!"

Ilia ignored him, and propping the arm on a pillow, summoned water from the basin again. Focusing her energy on the sight, she stopped the Maester.

"Do not disturb me, I am healing the King's injury." The water enveloped her hands, and she placed it on Robb Stark's upper arm. Immediately, she felt the angry tissue flare, and knots of confused and misdirected energy. Her brow knitted, and she slowly began to unravel the knots in the flow of his blood. The King of the North gave a sigh of relief as she did so. Encouraged by his response, she continued to work.

Ilia lost herself, and all track of time. She wound the water in and out of the wound, each time removing more and more of the dark, angry energy. She felt herself tiring, but refused to give up until every last bit of the wound had been cleaned. Distantly, she registered the door opening and closing. A growl and a hiss could be heard. Grey Wind returned and met the big black cat they called Echo. Yet, because both creatures seemed equally devoted to their masters, and registered the somber occasion. They two beasts would not wreak havoc… yet. Grey Wind jumped onto the bed and lay dutifully at his master's feet. The direwolf watched Ilia with critical eyes. Echo's golden stare, in turn, never left Grey Wind.

Some time later, she did not know how long, Ilia completed her task. She moved the water in and out of the wound one last time, and found it clean. Exhausted, she fell back and dropped her arms. She opened her eyes in time to see the Maester move around the bed, and examine his patient.

"It is fully clean… the festering is gone! Remarkable! Simply remarkable!" the young man continued to exclaim under his breath, and wrapped the arm in white bandages.

Lord Umber was gone, but Walder Rivers had stayed. Her bastard brother took her face in his hands and smiled.

"_You_ are remarkable, do you know that?" he said softly, and Ilia closed her eyes, smiling.

"I can help the Lady to her room," llia heard, but did not see Jeyne Westerling. Two sets of hands helped her up, and once on her feet she nearly collapsed. She was lifted into the air, and Ilia knew it had to have been Walder Rivers again, because she recognized his musty scent. Ilia didn't remember the walk, but it must not have been long because she was placed on a feather bed soon enough. The blankets were pulled over her. The last thing she felt was the body of Echo pressed against her right side. Darkness took her.


	14. Chapter 14: With Regrets

Chapter Fourteen: With Regrets

Robb commanded to be briefed by his councilmen as soon as he woke. It was the recommendation of the Maester that he not overexert himself in the coming days. While he was past the most critical stage of infection, and out of danger, he did run the risk of exhausting himself, and exposing himself to further illness. Still, it did nothing for him to sit here, useless. He looked weak in front of his liege lords… It bothered him. This was how Bran felt before he left for the South. He remembered sitting by Bran's side, and bearing the brunt of his little brother's bitterness. Robb would feel bitter too, if he had been confined to bed. So, he had chosen only a few lords to speak with him this morning and sent the others away. The less they saw of him in these moments, the better.

Robb distantly remembered his fever. He had seen the Maester, and finally Lady Ilia, in his feverish state. He remembered black hair cascading over his arm. It had tickled him. He remembered feeling desperate. He said things to her. He recalled the deep desire to be earnest with her. In his fever, he wished frenziedly that she could see things from his vantage point. He all but begged her to help him. He felt death knocking, and wanted a shield. It was nothing more.

Whatever he said, it must have eased her doubts. She had done it. He recalled the cool convergence of water and skin, and the reprieve of pain when she first laid a hand on him. It was heavenly. Despite their self-conscious relationship, she still resolved to aid him in his time of need. Robb thought she might resent him because of the strong possibility of their marriage on the horizon. Marriage to a woman, a lady of another house, he barely knew. He barely _knew_ _her_. Gods, how troublesome that deal with Walder Frey was turning out.

It was difficult to envision Lady Ilia at a sept, with Robb, saying their vows. Unbreakable vows. He had been preparing for this eventuality his entire life. When he was younger, Robb always thought his father would have given him some say in his future bride. He even thought he could have chosen for himself. A part of him had hoped for love. He was very foolish indeed. Robb should be glad that with this marriage agreement he obtained several thousands soldiers.

His arm itched. Oh gods, it itched. He longed for nothing more than a coarse horsebrush to scratch his arm bloody with. The Maester would have been scandalized.

His tiredness must have shown, because several of his lords now made the case to close the meeting. How could he be their King if he could not focus on their words? Perhaps it was better to rest for now. He nodded his thanks, even though Robb would have liked to discuss more. He had been silent for the last few minutes, lost in thought. Still, there was enough work to be done… for now. Robb needed to secure more of the surrounding lands, and their forces needed to remain dominant in the west. The Crag was a great victory. But victory does not make any man a conqueror. It would not be wise to grow confident now. His mother would argue that it is not wise to grow confident _ever_.

Alone, the King lay back on the pillows of his bed. He rested his injured arm. Robb's mind drifted to his family. He wondered what Jon was doing on the Wall. Had he gotten news of father's death? Did Jon want to leave? Robb hoped not. He hoped Jon hadn't tried. Else Robb would have to kill…

Gods, don't think such morbid thoughts! What about Arya? No word of Arya from King's Landing since their father's death. Where was she? Was she still alive? Was she… was she…?

Stop! He groaned and rubbed his temples with his good arm. Bran and Rickon were still safe in Winterfell. His brother Theon would return soon, and all would be well. The ships from the Iron Isles would strengthen the North, and Stannis and Renly fucking Baratheon would be nothing more than a few sentences in a Maester's scrolls. Sansa was still alive, that much was certain. The incestuous, adulterous Queen Cersei had made that unambiguous in her letter. Sansa was in the custody of those heartless lions and that braggart Joffrey. Those soulless bastards masquerading as Kings and Queens, Knights and Lords. When they were nothing! Nothing! Oh Sansa, what horrors she might face now. What torture had they already done? He had heard rumors. Rumors of Joffrey's "kindness".

Robb was going to slaughter them. Robb was going to rend Joffrey's golden head off of his sickly frame. Robb would sack the entire damned city. He banged his fists on the sidetable, only he used the wrong arm.

"Augh!" he tensed, distressed by the pain.

_Bark! Bark! _ Answering hisses. Two loud crashes and his door came flying open. Grey Wind bounded around the room, wrestling and growling with a black shadow. The terrible two tumbled about his chambers, knocking over the irons by the fire and sending a chair clattering to the floor. Robb sat, dazed for a moment, before sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed. Really, the Maester would be furious, but he couldn't just watch his living space get annihilated by an overgrown dog and cat.

"ENOUGH!"

The two froze in an almost comical pose. Grey Wind had the cat's tail in his mouth, and the big cat was curled around Grey Wind's back, biting his direwolf's pointed ears. They looked at him in apprehension.

"Echo! Grey Wind!"

Lady Ilia, damn it all. Robb looked down on himself. He was wearing simple brown trousers and a white tunic, not even belted. It was highly inappropriate to be seen as such. Swiveling his head around his immediate vicinity, he could find nothing more to cover himself. He sighed in resignation. Another moment of failure with the lady was imminent.

She came to the doorway. The large black cat detangled himself and took several steps away from his direwolf. Trying to look innocent, Echo lay down and began licking his forearms. The lady put one slippered foot into the room and immediately found the King's eyes. Lady Ilia wasn't wearing breeches and a tunic any more. She was in a soft, blue dress. Robb could not recall ever seeing her in such an agreeable manner, that he stopped and stared for a moment.

Her hair was let down today too. He had always seen her in braids. It was very long, longer than Sansa's, he would say, but shorter than his Mother's. It almost reached her waist. There were a few curls on the bottom he would have liked to tug, and see if they sprang back. He used to do that with Jon's hair when they were boys, and found it very amusing. She looked clean and bright, simple and beautiful. The light from the windows highlighted the dips and curves of her features marvelously. Her cheeks were flushed, no doubt from chasing the two quarreling beasts. The entire image was so disarming, he could not think of anything to say. After a moment of stammering internally, he managed to croak a few words.

"They're trying to act innocent."

The lady looked at the two animals, and sent an irritated look at the cat. "Oh, I know. He always tries to act innocent after doing something wrong. I suspect he will try to teach your Grey Wind his ways."

Indeed, Grey Wind was already on the other side of the room. Hearing his name, he looked between the two masters and trotted out the door. The cat remained, having spotted a mouse in the corner.

She cleared her throat. "Are you feeling well?"

"Yes!" Robb struggled for words, taking a few steps forward. "Yes, I am. The Maester told me… he told me what you did. Though I don't think "magical water" was quite what he meant to say..." Robb chuckled at the memory, "he was obviously at a loss for words."

The lady laughed. It was a pleasant sound, and Robb felt immediately more at ease. "I think that sums it up quite nicely actually. I couldn't have said it better myself."

Robb smiled. She smiled back, but she was still standing awkwardly in the doorway to his room. He almost hit himself for shame. "Would my lady like a seat and a glass of water since it seems your chase it at an end?"

She nodded in ascent, relieved that he spoke first. Perhaps she was just as unnerved by him as he was by her. Lady Ilia righted the chair that was knocked over, and sat down. Robb sat across from her, a small table covered the expanse between them. They both looked out the window.

"I like the ocean," she admitted, crossing her legs and smoothing the dress. "I've never seen it before. It's breathtaking. I was in awe."

Now that she was closer, Rob could notice some small details about her that he hadn't before. There was a thick metal bracelet around her left wrist with no jewels. She wore practical brown slippers today, and he could see her feet were very tiny. Overall, her body was dwarfed by his height and width. Greatjon and one of her many brothers had told him about her actions on the field. Looking at her ladylike image now, he could scarcely believe it.

Her other hand stroked the fur of the big black cat nervously. Her face was very lovely to look at. It was noble looking, but not angled and arrogant like the Lannisters. There was still a softness to her features that Robb found he liked. Her nose was small, like Sansa's, and buttonlike. He wondered if it wrinkled like his sister's when she was displeased. With her black hair, and light eyes, she looked more northern, than Frey. Her eyes though… her eyes were a mystical silver. They made her look mysterious and aloof as she gazed distantly out the window at the sea.

"Has my lady lived her entire life in the Crossing?" Robb asked curiously.

She nodded, and the nod turned into a grimace.

"You didn't like it?"

"Oh no! I mean, well, it wasn't awful. It's still home. My family made it home. I shouldn't have made a face. I only meant—," she trailed off, at a loss for words. Obviously, she did not want to speak ill will of the seat of her House. However, Robb wondered how life must have been living with the Late Lord Frey, who ruled the Crossing with an iron grip and a cruel heart.

"You _can_ speak honestly with me, my lady. I would not be cross with you for speaking your mind." Robb looked serious. "My father always said that it is good to hear the good _and_ the bad of a place. To get the full story."

Ilia shifted in her seat, and clenched the fur of the cat. Sensing her distress, Echo placed his large head on her leg. "My lord father did not make our home the most welcoming one. It was not a bad home. Please don't think _too_ ill of him. My brothers are good men too… very good men. They try to make things better. Except… we are a… weaker and poorer house, and my father always had designs to make us richer, and more powerful. It was not the perfect home, but it was not awful. I often wondered what it might be like to live far away. Someplace less oppressive… with just my brothers and I."

Robb nodded. He suspected as much about the Crossing. It struck him as a dreary place, just crossing it's bridge. The lord Frey did not seem the type of man to dote on his daughters, or embrace his sons. For the thousandth time in his life, he thanked the old gods and the new, for his great father, Ned Stark.

"What is Winterfell like?"

"The cold on the outside belies the warmth on the inside." Robb thought fondly. "The walls have hot spring water running through them, as my ancestor Bran the Builder designed. There is the wolf's wood nearby, and the heartwood. Winter town is always bustling in the winter months, and empty in the summer but the forge seems to run night and day. The keep is the safest place in all the seven kingdoms, and the great hall can seat five hundred people. There is a glass garden I think you might enjoy, if you like nature, and numerous other towers that would take weeks to describe their rooms and uses."

Lady Ilia studied his face as he spoke. Her eyes were alight with curiosity, and Robb knew she was interested. He wasn't trying to exaggerate or crow about his home, but it was difficult not to. Robb longed to return to Winterfell. In fact, that was exactly what he intended to do as soon as he finished with this business in the South. Return home.

_Home._ Robb thought wistfully.

"Your Grace loves his home."

Robb looked her in the eye. "Yes, I do."

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation, and Robb excused himself momentarily. An old maid had brought them dinner to eat. He thanked her graciously and took the food from her hands. Roasted chicken, fresh bread, some greens and cheese. His mouth watered in anticipation and his stomach clenched at the smells. He _was_ hungry.

"Would you do me the honor of dining with me tonight, my lady?" he arched an eyebrow at her.

"I… yes, of course."

His arm ached as he brought the tray over, and the Lady stood up and took it from him. Her hand brushed his for a moment, and he felt the softness of the skin there. It startled him, and unnerved, he relinquished the tray.

"You really shouldn't exert yourself, your Grace, there's still a hole in your arm," Lady Ilia softly chided.

"Oh," Robb stood there awkwardly and then sat down. She was already pushing food towards him on a plate and he accepted with a nod. "You should eat too."

Lady Ilia hesitated, before helping herself to some of the chicken. She took a generous portion and fed it to the cat. Echo swallowed his helping full, and looked at her for more. Robb could have sworn that she whispered "go kill the mice", but couldn't say for certain.

An awkward silence descended on the two of them. The conversation until then had been filled with formalities with sudden casualties. It unnerved him. The King simply didn't know where he stood in relation to this woman. Robb had never before held his breath for so long, and ate at the same time. The large wooden clock on the other side of the room ticked obnoxiously. He wanted to throw his cup at it. Instead, he filled the pewter goblet with red wine and offered the Lady some. She shook her head no at first, and then seemed to deliberate something. In the end, she took the wine and thanked him quietly. She only sipped the drink.

Once dinner was cleared, Robb knew he had to say something, or they'd be doomed to this silence forever.

"I want to thank you for what you did."

At the same time she said, "I'm so sorry, your Grace, please forgive me."

Robb stopped. They both stared at each other in bewilderment. "You're sorry?"

Lady Ilia turned a little red and hung her head. "I'm sorry for leaving Riverrun after I was told to stay there. I followed the army despite being told not to. I am so sorry. I shouldn't have. I put myself in unnecessary danger. I've always been too independent for my own good. Please, the blame lies with me. I did not do it to earn your ire. I had no idea what would happen and I was being foolish. It was no way to thank you for the care your family has given me."

Silence filled the air. Robb mulled over her words for a little while. He didn't know what to say. In truth, he hadn't even wondered how she had gotten to the Crag. When he woke up, he had no idea how long he had been asleep. The fever had been disorienting. He assumed a few days had past. He should have realized it would have taken her at least a week or two to reach him on horseback. She had followed the army.

"That was incredibly dangerous," Robb admitted. "But it was also fortuitous, because I am almost certain I would not have survived that arrow wound without your skill. I will forgive you your transgressions if you will forgive mine. I don't know what I said to you in my… delirium, my lady, but I do recall what I felt when I saw you. I have felt guilty ever since leaving you that day, in the courtyard at Riverrun."

Lady Ilia raised her head and looked at him sincerely. Her voice was quiet, but firm. "There's no need to ask forgiveness. I've only ever wanted to find my sister and my friend. I shouldn't have yelled at you. You had the good sense to walk away but I am quick to argument when I am tired. Forgive me too, your Grace."

Relief. Robb smiled, genuinely. The lady did not resent him. That was good to hear. "You really shouldn't follow the footmen, my lady. It is extremely dangerous. I will keep you in my company when we return to Riverrun, and make the arrangements for your guard. Your cat, I assume, is your sword shield, but allow me to ease his burden."

Echo looked at him scornfully. Lady Ilia patted his head affectionately and agreed to his proposal. "That would be very helpful, thank you. I think I've had enough of traveling alone. The protection would make it easier to sleep at night."

"Then it is agreed," Robb clapped his hands. "We shall return to Riverrun together as soon as our forces here are finished with my work. For now, I would ask that you remain in the Crag. Here, you shall be well cared for. I can also guarantee your protection. And here, you can continue to work on what my mother asked of you."

"I have made some progress on that front," the lady said softly, not meeting his eyes. "I hope I can help us both find our loved ones soon."

She said it so faintly. Her voice was soft, and easy to listen to. He thought he would like to hear it more often. Robb had the almost irresistible urge to touch her wrist in comfort. He knew her sister was missing too.

"I will ask my men to keep an eye out for Lady Arwyn Frey. I will let you know if they have heard, or seen anything. I am glad that this journey, has reunited you with at least one of your friends." Robb nodded at the cat. "It is a happy ending for him."

Lady Ilia smiled so brightly at him then, he felt queasy from the shock of it. "Thank you, I would be very grateful."

Robb coughed awkwardly, slowly gaining the courage to address the most important issue. He had no idea how well she would react to the subject. She seemed at ease now, but he didn't want to send her flying out the door. At present moment however, he couldn't let the opportunity escape. She was here now, wasn't she?

"Are you aware of the deal I've made with your father?"

That sounded harsher than he meant it. The Lady turned pale, and… were her hands shaking? He had ruined it now. Robb mentally chastised himself. How was he going to do this?

"Yes," she whispered. "In exchange for crossing the bridge and the power of our house, your grace agreed to take Olyvar as squire, Big and Little Walder as wards of Winterfell, marry your sister to one of ours and…"

"Marry you."

Lady Ilia inhaled sharply, and nostrils flared. "Not necessarily, any one of my sisters."

Robb sighed and rubbed his head. He then ran an aggravated hand through his hair. "You and your sister are the only one of Lord Frey's daughters that are my age. And now, your sister has gone missing. You just happened to come into my mother's custody in Riverrun. You've been seen in my camp by all my lords, your brothers, and in the company of me and my mother. Already the small folk will be talking. News of your arrival in Riverrun has no doubt, already reached your father's ears. Your brothers have already spoken to me about the issue. They expect me to act honorably. And more importantly, much more importantly... my mother…" he coughed and shifted in his chair.

"When she first told me the terms of the agreement, I balked at the thought. I couldn't imagine marrying so soon. I was only focused on bringing my father home. Even now, I am focused on vengeance. I barely gave a thought to what I wanted. I agreed hastily. I agreed to dealing with the consequences when I returned. When you appeared in Riverrun, I knew it would tarnish your reputation to have traveled in the wilds, and to have been captured by Lord Karstark. Still… my mother mentioned that she took a liking to you, and I value her opinion very highly. I would like to propose our own agreement… if I could."

The lady listened raptly. Ilia looked like she had regained some blood. Her eyes were focused on him, and him alone. Her gaze made him feel rooted in his seat. In truth, he never regarded a woman's thoughts so much as he regarded hers in that moment. Robb couldn't remember ever speaking so freely with someone outside his family. It was refreshing and terrifying at the same time.

"Go on," she said.

Robb steeled himself. "If you agree to our marriage. I will try to make your life as comfortable as possible. I can convince your father to allow your closest friends and family to stay in Winterfell. You could visit the Crossing anytime you like. You can do as you please with your time, as long as it's reasonable of course. You can read whatever you like, you can practice your _particular_ skills, you can go wherever you'd like, and I would leave you in peace. I would never lay a violent hand on you. I would not force you to do anything you object to. I would treat you with respect, and expect the same in return."

"I promise you," he reached out tentatively to brush her hand. Gaining courage, he slowly grasped her fingers. It was the same soft skin from earlier. "I am not a cruel man."

For a moment, Robb could imagine her picking up her goblet and flinging it in his face. He imagined her storming out of the Crag and running to her brothers. He saw the sigil of the Frey house turn red in anger.

Instead, she gave a gentle squeeze back. "Truly?"

"Truly," he let the firmness of his convictions resonate in his voice.

Lady Ilia nodded her head slowly. With a start, he realized a few tears had streaked her cheeks. She brushed them away quietly and nodded again. "Yes, that sounds very agreeable to me. If you wouldn't mind, your grace, could I sleep on the matter? I don't want make a hasty decision."

Robb stood, wanting to be on his feet again. He was always better on his feet. He held out his hand to the Lady and she took it. Her grasp was very gentle. "Will I see you tomorrow, my lady?"

She nodded her ascent, and Robb helped her up, as he had seen his father do with his mother a number of times. He would have to write down all the things his father used to do for his mother, to try and make a better impression on Lady Ilia. If she was sincere tonight, than she did not think as poorly of him as he believed. He walked her some ways down the hall, before they reached a room around the corner. The lady stopped, so he assumed these were her quarters.

"I will send for you, and you will tell me about the progress you've made?"

"As long as you tell me more about those Winterfell towers. Good night, your Grace."

"Sweet dreams," Robb found himself saying. His heard the baker say that to his wife once. It seemed like a kind notion. Lady Ilia smiled beguilingly, and closed her door softly behind her. The last thing he saw was her black hair disappear around the door.

And in a few seconds, he was alone again. Curtains of black hair haunted his dreams that night.


	15. Chapter 15: Ryman

Chapter Fifteen: Ryman

What was happening to the Frey house? Madness surely, madness that all started with Annara Farring's children. The horses' hooves echoed ominously in the night. Colmar's arms were wrapped around his waist tightly. Wendel ducked his head as they passed under the broken gate of ruined town. The Mountain's work, most likely. Wendel had heard rumors of Tywin Lannister's faithful ogre wreaking havoc on the Riverlands. Their silver steed shook in dismay, as she almost tripped over a rough patch of cobblestone.

Wendel reigned in the mare. Colmar looked around cautiously.

"We'll stop for the night."

Wendel never left room for negotiation. He was as sure as ever. That was his role to play as the eldest brother. He helped Colmar unload the saddlebags and brushed down the horse. Wendel quickly set up camp inside the half burnt inn. The ceiling had failed in some parts, and the walls were scorched with soot. Colmar had the good sense to brush away the dust where they lay their bed roll. The horse was placed in the stables nearby.

Wendel was glad father had given them a horse of their choosing. He had chosen the mute. The mute never neighed. The mute never snorted. Silence was invaluable if they were to pass quietly through these lands. Returning to the inn, he gathered some splintered wood and struck a small fire in a metal grate. Wendel prided himself on being resourceful. He was a lord's son, not a fucking simpleton. The room instantly warmed, and Colmar sighed contentedly before opening a book to read. Wendel shook his head, Colmar and his books. Will it never end? He will die with his nose in some dusty, dull, dank book. There were more important things to attend to. There were houses to oversee, lands to tend, songs to hear, swords to master, and most importantly, there was family. Wendel did everything for his family.

Rumors were Wendel's specialty. They always had been. If ever there was a question of who was bedding whom, Wendel knew. If there were ever a rumor about unrest in the North, or secret marriage arrangements in the South, Wendel would know. Wendel was the eyes and ears of the Crossing. He was no Lion. Wendel was a weasel, and damn proud of it. Wendel was, however, unlucky enough to be born _nineteenth_. Never had Wendel hated a number more than nineteen. When he turned nineteen, he would not celebrate. One time, Wendel shot eighteen arrows, and the nineteenth skimmed the target. He was so frustratingly irate, he hacked the target apart with his sword. Ah, what a lovely memory. The arm's master had turned purple.

Wendel unsheathed his sword and sharpened it. It was his pick from the armory. Father was favoring him lately, which was good, very good.

He remembered the conversation they had before departure. Wendel informed the Late Lord Frey of his intention to chaperone their sister, Ilia, back to the Crossing. Riverrun was no place for a lady. It was war struck and hazardous. It belonged to a rival family, though Wendel did not view the Tully's as particularly threatening, he knew his father did. Oh, how Wendel loved to play with his father's fears.

"If she swims too long with the fishes, they will fill her head with nonsense, father. Ilia is loyal to us… for now…" Wendel remembered skimming his fingers over the map of Westeros. He traced the lives of the Trident for his father, outlining their foolishly proud history. Father hated old houses. He hated them because the Frey's were not an old house.

"They will fill her with entitlement and self-indulgence. I must go and retrieve her. We must retrieve her... The King will soon have his way with her and beg for _another_ daughter to waste. Kings are hedonistic, as you know."

Oh, father loved that. How he seethed and foamed over the thought of Ilia being a ruined woman. Lord Frey considered his sixth daughter to be a valuable commodity. Women were currency between houses, to be bought and sold. Wendel encouraged his rantings and ravings. The more Wendel agreed with their father, the more he was favored. Stevron always looked down on Wendel's trickery. Ah, but weasel's are tricksy, are they not? _Embrace what you are_, _brother, the Lannister's and the Starks have_.

"Send me, father." Wendel had pressed, at the height of Lord Frey's rage. "Let me drag my sister back where she belongs. Let her remember the glory of her House."

So it came to be that Wendel traveled with his new sword, and his choice of mare. Wendel called her "Chatty", mainly because it offended Colmar. His little brother had a soft spot for horses, dogs, and other furry things. He would never make a decent hunter. The sword, he would not name. Braggarts names their swords, and Wendel was anything but a braggart. Though… perhaps if pressed, he might call it

Wendel thought about what he was going to do. He could retrieve Ilia, and wait until this war was over to wed her to the Northern King. However, that didn't seem awfully conniving. Wendel should play to his strengths. He was a good fighter. Colmar was a brain. They would think of something smart to do. It wouldn't do to waste this opportunity. They were out of the Crossing and into the real world. The only close relatives they left behind were Waltyr and Elmar. Elmar was still too young, he couldn't have traveled this far, and Waltyr would look after him in the meantime. Just like Waltyr needed to do his part, Wendel and Colmar would do theirs. All in the name of House Frey.

Colmar sighed and turned in his sleep. Wendel stood and took the book from his little brother's hands. It was time for bed after all. They had a long road ahead of them.

* * *

Ilia tried her luck with the water basin again.

Jeyne was incredibly helpful. The daughter of Westerling was proving to be an invaluable asset. That morning, she helped Ilia bathe and dress. Ilia hadn't had a maiden to assist her in gods know how long. In return, Ilia played with the water between her hands, for Jeyne's delight. The brown haired girl was morbidly fascinated by her newfound power.

Jeyne brought her the jugs of water Ilia requested, and Ilia spent all the hours of morning concentrating on the thought of Arya Stark. It was an ill-conceived image she conjured up. In her mind, she tried to combine both Catelyn Stark and Robb Stark, but they both had too much Tully in them. The truth of the matter was, she didn't _know_ what Arya Stark looked liked, or who she was, and couldn't conjure the faintest semblance of a face. The water in the basin remained blank, only faintly rippling as Ilia grew frustrated. She swept her hair irritatingly, only to tangle it. Where had Jeyne gone? She needed this mess to be turned into a braid. Then again, Jeyne was a highborn lady. She shouldn't be braiding anyone's hair. There were too few maids in the Crag. Most women were put to washing and cooking and other tasks as the Northern army required. Ilia should have been doing these things too. Instead, she was crouched over a bowl trying to fulfill her agreement with the Starks.

Ilia wished she had not left her mother's grimoire at Riverrun. It would be useful to have. She couldn't remember enough of scrying to successfully conjure an image of the lost Stark girl. And… she feared to look for Arwyn. Part of her didn't want to know what befell her ill-fated sister. Ilia felt tears forming in her eyes. If only she had been stronger, if she had been faster and smarter. They should have seen through the ruse of those two fools. Ilia should have stayed. Would she have been able to fight the entire camp of men? _Witch_.

No. She never would have stood a chance. They would have hung her from an oak tree and left her to the crows, and Arwyn would still have been missing.

Sighing, she turned back to the water. Perhaps she should start with something… or someone easier. _Echo_ _perhaps_. Envisioning her black cat, she dipped a single finger into the water. The ripples moved outward, leaving strands of color in their wake. An image slowly formed. Blurry at first, she could not make out the details. Her fists curled around the edges of the basin, and she squinted. _The courtyard?_

She could see the dirt and sand beneath black, furry paws. The vision shifted quickly. _I am seeing life through Echo's eyes_, she realized. The cat cocked his head to the side, shifting the picture slightly. She could see men's legs, and women's skirts, a few horses, and Grey Wind, stalking nearby. He held a large lamb bone in his mouth, and dropped it. The direwolf licked his chops teasingly, and waited. The vision spiraled as Echo gave chase. The wolf snatched the bone at the last second and the image tumbled so much, Ilia grew motion sick watching it. Suddenly, the tumbling stopped, and Echo directed his eyes toward the gate.

A deep bell rang twice. Ilia could hear it from her room on the highest floor. She looked outside for some great encroaching army but realized her rooms were on the opposite side of the hall and she could only see ocean. In the water basin, Ilia saw a blue cloaked teenager and a smaller boy gallop into the courtyard. Rushing down four flights of stairs, Ilia reached the courtyard in time to see the riders dismount. The other Frey's were there to greet them. The standard of the crossing was embroidered on her younger brother's cloak and Ilia ran to embrace them both.

"Wendel! Colmar!"

Wendel patted her on the back and head as affectionately as he could. Colmar, always better at expressing emotion, hugged her around the waist. Once they were done embracing, Colmar looked her up and down, and bid her to spin around. She gave him a questioning look, but did as he asked.

"You are unharmed?" Wendel inquired.

"Perfectly fine," Walder Rivers came up beside her, and grasped arms with Wendel. "It's good to see you, brother. And, you, Colmar."

"I've come with a message and on the orders of our Lord Father. Your time here is at an end, sister," Wendel handed his horse off to the stableboy and removed his gloves. He retrieved a rolled up bit of parchment from his breastpocket and held it in his hand. "Where is the King in the North? I also have a message from him, and I would rather deliver it sooner as it contains some… bad news. I am not eager to deliver it to him, but it must be done."

Dread immediately filled Ilia. Her father, oh gods, her father. What could be done? He must be furious. Beyond furious.

"He also had some words for you," Wendel looked her in the eye, "but I feel that they may be more appropriate for a private company."

Colmar's face was red and bothered. Ilia knew instantly why. _Lord Frey has _choice_ words for me_.

"Where is Arwyn?"

"Lost," Walder Rivers interjected. "I was hoping you would have seen her, or heard word of her on your travels."

Wendel and Colmar shook their heads no. Ilia was filled with even more despair and guilt. Her hands shook and her breathing was shallow. Rivers gently laid a hand on her arm.

"Then let us find the King and get this nasty business over with. If you were to depart soon brother, I would ask to be included in your plans. My sword arm grows tired, and my desire to see the Crossing grows. The army will soon move back East, and I have a longing for home. I would gladly accompany you as a part of your guard."

"That is yet to be determined, my good bastard brother," Wendel spoke slowly and cautiously, as he always did when he was plotting something. The foursome walked together, Ilia leading the way, to where she thought Robb Stark might be. He had recovered mostly from his wound, and was holding court in the great meeting hall every day. Mostly, to talk battle plans, and never without a massive map displayed before him.

Then, something occurred to her.

"Wait!" Ilia grabbed Wendel's arm. He maneuvered out of her grasp quickly and smoothed the fabric. "How did you know I was at the Crag? Why wouldn't you go to Riverrun first?"

"That was our initial plan of action," Wendel turned to continue their journey. They passed through the Hall of Statues. The Crag boasted stone carvings of the old Westerling lords from the first Westerling, to Gaen Westerling, the last great lord of that house. Since then, the house had been more prideful, and less successful. Or, they could not longer afford to make such large stone carving. There were no sculptors left either, for that matter.

"We first learned of your whereabouts a few weeks past, when you arrived at Riverrun. Stevron was kind enough to send a messenger to assure us of your safety. Our lady mother was mad with worry, she does care for you, Ilia, though she would never say it aloud for fear of our father's mockery. I told her gladly. Your safety was of paramount concern. Lord Frey, however, was not as overjoyed. Our liege lords have often earned his ire."

"Poor Joyeause…" Ilia wondered aloud.

"The Riverlands were under constant attack, however. The Mountain that rides had been seen everywhere, and we could not pinpoint his location. It was too dangerous to send for you then… and Lady Stark… and Lady Stark had also sent a message begging for father's permission to keep you as her warden. There were a few other circumstances too, that you were not aware of."

"She planned that…" Ilia said, as they turned a corner and began to ascend the many stairs of the Crag.

"No doubt, I have many more questions for you later. We have heard some interesting rumors, sister."

"At any rate, we first made for Riverrun, but some fortunate circumstances forced our path to change…"

"I had a dream!" Colmar interjected. "I saw you, Ilia, at the sea."

Wendel hushed him, "yes, Colmar's dream was very…. vivid. Or so he claims. I am not one to believe in nonsensical magical things… but _lately_… we also came across a lost septa off the beaten path. She said she traveled with a young woman who could conjure a flame in her hand, and used it to cauterize wounds at the Crag. Colmar was convinced. We were already off course, lost in the wilderness, and due to the rain, the stars were difficult to spot. We followed the woman's directions and changed mounts at a small town. Our new destrier was fast and strong, and we made it to the Crag within the week. No small feat. It helped that the rain had all but let up, as soon as the septa passed. Strange circumstances… strange words… strange happenings…" Wendel trailed off.

They reached the great hall. The Crag could set up to a thousand soldiers, but the tables had been cleared to the left and right. The Lannister banners had been torn down, and now only the Stark wolf and Westerling shells decorated the hall. Robb Stark had been kind and understanding to the Westerling lords, largely due to Lady Jeyne's insistence, and fondness for Robb and Ilia.

The King stood, with his lords and ladies, at the front of the hall. He wore his crown today, but looked weary. He was still fatigued and recovering. The company gave her a curious look. Ilia avoided court at all costs. They likely did not know her by sight. She feared the judgment and the eyes of the Northern lords. Court held bad memories for her. Her father's sense of justice was morbid and twisted. At the Crossing, she found her dead mother's office to be more welcoming.

"Your Grace," Wendel approached and took a knee. Colmar followed his lead, mimicking Wendel's every move.

"_More_ Frey's?" Smalljon snorted, "how many of you are there?"

"Thirty, last I counted, Ser." Wendel straightened at Robb's wave, not in the least bit phased by the slight. "That does not include cousins or marriages, only direct descendents. If I were to include those, I would say something around fifty, my lord. If you included bastards, their children and marriages, I might say seventy. If I were to include my uncles and his children, it gets more confusing and the numbers grow. Alas, the gods have blessed us with a large family."

"More like they've blessed the late Lord Frey with young wives," she heard a knight mutter, but Wendel wisely chose to ignore it.

"Your name?" the King asked.

"Wendel, the _nineteenth_," he directed the number at Smalljon, "Your Grace."

"And why have you come all this way? These are dangerous times, and only a matter of importance would call a young lad to take to the road with his even younger brother…"

"Colmar, the twentieth."

_Gods_ _Colmar_, Ilia thought, _how long have you been following Wendel around in my absence_? Was Wendel a good role model for him? He had been so sweet as a young lad. But he was much older now. Ilia could not be the only one to notice the change in Wendel. He bore a fine steel sword at his side, and the brown armor, lined with blue, of their house. It also seemed that Wendel's ambitions had not faded with age. If anything, he was even bolder now.

"I have come with a message from my father, he bid me to bring it to you personally," Wendel held out the yellowed parchment. The message was passed from Olyvar to Robb. The King unrolled the message, and as his eyes flickered back and forth, his expression grew dark. The tension in the room rose. Robb Starks brow furrowed, and his teeth clenched. A few lord's, along with Ilia, shifted restlessly. Echo suddenly appeared at her side.

The King composed himself with a few deep breaths, "I would like to speak with the boy alone, and bring me Ser Ryman and Ser Edwyn."

The hall emptied slowly, as each lord gathered his papers and books. Wendel wore a blank expression, but Ilia could tell he was steeling himself.

"Do you know the contents of this message?" Robb questioned him.

"Aye, Your Grace," Wendel nodded in greeting as their eldest cousin, and heir to the Crossing, entered the hall. Ser Ryman must not have been far, because he appeared almost instantly after being summoned.

"Your Grace," Ryman knelt. Ryman was older, and bore resemblance to Lord Frey in many ways. He was cold, blunt, and unfeeling. His hair was balding and he had a big belly. Ryman was more prone to gluttony than adultery. His fondness for ale and food was known, but his consequence was that he always had stomache troubles, ever since he was a little lad. It was a peculiar ailment that the Maester never truly understoond. As a result, Ryman always carried ginger in a pouch on his belt. At his entrance, the smell of the sweet root immediately took to the air.

"Rise, and we shall wait for your son," Robb handed him the parchment, "this message just came from the Crossing."

Ryman read the missive passively and dully. He puckered his lips as he read. When Edwyn arrived, he handed the parchment to him wordlessly. His son reacted quite the same way. _They must have known_. Ilia realized. _He is entirely unsurprised_. She was, apparently, the only Frey not to know the goings-on of their House. It was unsurprising really. Lord Frey was always plotting something, and she had been… recently absent.

"I shall have to inform my garrison," Ser Edwyn concluded, smoothing the piece of parchment before handing it back to his father.

"You shall do no such thing!" the King snarled, leaning forward in his seat. "_What_ is the meaning of this?"

"What does it say?" Ilia could not stop from asking.

"Our lord father has convincingly accused the King of the North of kidnapping, sister," Wendel announced, "and ordered a freeze of our support."

"Quiet," Ryman instructed Wendel. Her brother closed his mouth with a snap, but looked smug. "I shall explain the circumstance, Your Grace. If you would allow me freedom to speak."

Robb Stark nodded darkly. "I would rather you speak your mind. I must know this matter more intimately."

"Very well," Ryman coughed and cleared his throat.

"Our lord father has been greatly concerned for the welfare of our sister," Ryman said, "I have written to him several times on the matter. When I requested she be brought to our encampment in Riverrun, where she _belonged_, Lady Stark interfered. I tried several times to visit her, and speak with her, but I could not get past the guards. There has been an obvious conspiracy against us. If I had been given the chance at Riverrun, I would have sent my sister home. I was told repeatedly she was under the crown's protection. Still, she managed to be dragged halfway across the country with _Lord Umber_ acting as her father." Ryman's words turned angry, "what right does he have? I ask you… Your Grace? What right does the Northman have over _my sister_, when her brother by _blood_ lies only a _hundred feet_ away? I learned of her departure from Riverrun by rumor only. I could scarcely believe it. She was transported without my permission, and without my protection."

During Ryman's speech, Robb's brow furrowed in confusion and he looked to her. She had not told him Lord Umber's part in shuttling her across the Westerlands. Ryman never acknowledged his sister while he spoke. Edwyn's gaze followed the King's. He gave her a scornful look. Ilia swallowed painfully. Now would be the time for a miracle.

"Send for Lord Umber," the King commanded Wendel.


	16. Chapter 16: Charity

Chapter Sixteen: Charity

It was an hour before Ilia was allowed to enter the hall again. When Lord Umber appeared, she was sent away. The discussion, apparently, was not for her ears. The King has argued on her behalf for a while, but the heir to the Crossing insisted. Robb could not deny him. The Starks had already affronted House Frey, it would not be wise to offend its heir any further.

When she reentered, she noticed a few faces that had not been there before. The Maester of the sept was present, Jeyne Westerling and her parents, as well as Greatjon and Smalljon and Lord Karstark. Ryman and Edwyn were sitting in wooden chairs that had been drawn. There were numerous Frey knights present. They appeared to be immediate family only. By immediate family, they were only first-born and second born sons, and the most reputable knights. Most of which were her eldest brothers. There were a few friendly faces though. Ser Emmon, Ser Theo and Ser Perwyn stood as a trio, as always. And in the corner of the room, she could see Walder Rivers hiding in the shadows, watching and listening.

The _discussion_ had lasted for a few hours, and the Frey men looked weary and irritated. The Umbers preferred to stand. With their great height and width, they easily overshadowed every other man in the room. Their intentions were obviously to intimidate. The greatest surprise, however, was Wendel. Her brother was standing in front of the King, and somehow managed to command the company's attention. Wendel's nerves were showing as he clenched and unclenched his fists. He was fighting the desire to grip the hilt of his longsword. That was uncharacteristic of him. Colmar was at his side, ever his shadow. They both turned to her, as she approached.

"Sister," Wendel gestured.

Ilia drew closer and took his right hand, as he proffered. He squeezed it, and there was desperation in his eyes. Ilia had never seen that look on Wendel's face. He was trying to communicate something to her, and she didn't know what.

"Would you light a fire to this candle, please?" Wendel gestured to the wick in front of him. The tall red wax was emblazoned with the Lannister sigil. It was one of the many tall candles that decorated the great hall of the Crag. There was another lit candle next to it. Ilia went to pick up the lit candle, but Colmar's grip stopped her.

"The other way," he whispered to her. She looked down at him. Her little brother winked twice, in case she misunderstood.

"Oh… _Oh_…" she said stupidly, and couldn't bring herself to look around. Her heart and her throat clenched as her nerves betrayed her body. There were so many eyes on her at once, she shivered. The room was deathly silent. Where was her courage? Ilia told herself to stop being stupid.

"_Feyr_," in her right hand, she built the tiniest of flames, and held it to the candle. It caught fire instantly. Ilia shrunk back to Wendel's side, nearest his sword arm. He nodded appreciatively.

Some whispers broke out amongst the men. Lord Umber laughed sardonically. The other knight shifted in their armor. Robb Stark's face remained at blank as before, but when he saw her looking, he gave her a compassionate look. The young Maester had an enraptured look about his face, still fascinated with how she had healed the King's wound. On his right arm, he balanced a large book and with his other hand he scribbled notes furiously. Ilia didn't know if she liked that.

"Too small! I couldn't see anything!"

"Merely a magicians trick!"

"Bigger," Wendel said to her.

Again, she raised her palm, and conjured a larger flame than before. "That's the stuff," Colmar whispered encouragingly. Wendel squeezed her hand again, gentler this time. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, whether from nervousness or the close flames, she couldn't tell.

"Keep it going," Wendel whispered, his grip on her hand became almost painful. His eyes flittered back and forth across the hall suspiciously. In particular, they lingered on the gathered Frey's. "Give these bastards something to talk about."

Ilia nodded, and felt emboldened by her brother's spirit. She felt a lot safer with Wendel. He had his steel sword and fine armor. Finally, someone to defend her, for her sake only. Colmar too, had a long dirk at his side. Robb Stark was also watching over the proceedings with an controlled air. The King would not tolerate any nonsense in his court and he had _promised_ to not be cruel.

She released Wendel's hand and drew water and wine from the surrounding chalices. The clear, white and red liquids danced around her fingertips. Ilia felt strangely at peace playing with these elements. Her mind left her, and her brain fuzzed. She couldn't hear the ongoing conversation. There were muffled explanations, but they faded in her mind's ear. Ilia was transfixed by the fire and water in front of her. Inside her belly, a knot was forming. She started feeling a little sick. Her vision was spinning. The fire grew green, then blue, and purple. Her head was screaming at her to stop. This wasn't normal. It shouldn't feel this way. This wasn't what normally happened.

Wendel was speaking. He was alarmed. His hands were on her shoulders and Colmar was pushing on her arms to bring them down. Echo roared once, but it sounded so distant.

For a moment, her conscious mind worked its way to the forefront, and she realized something. _I've never used both at the same time_. Was that wise? Would it do something to her? Was something bad going to happen? She saw herself stumble, and the world went black.

* * *

Ilia was in palatial home, deep, deep in the Eastern world. It was hot and humid, and the sweat stuck to her brow. So far, no one took notice of the new fair skinned and raven haired girl. The woman they called "Dany" never spoke to Ilia. The other company of women took no heed of her presence. Ilia had even gathered the courage to speak a few times. But it seemed the ladies could not hear her. The vision of the world seemed to follow Lady Dany, so Ilia was bound to follow her also.

"Dany" had silver hair, violet eyes, and a classic beauty. The two other women with her, her handmaidens or slaves or lovers or friends, looked to be Dothraki and Lyseni. "Dany" conducted herself with the grace of a queen. Ilia witnessed the conversation between her and the tall Xaro Xhoan Daxos, a merchant Qartheen, who was strangely uninterested in the queenly woman's beauty, and more interested in her "children". The scaled beasts _Drogon, Viserion, _and _Rhaegal_ were both elegant and terrifying. Ilia sat on a woven chair, though whether she was dreaming or actually sitting there, she didn't know. Music reached their open window. The market was not too far from the merchant's palace.

Drogon sat on her lap, hissing pale smoke from between his teeth while Viserion and Rhaegal competed for attention from the Dothraki maid that tossed them burnt meat. It was a strange scene, but oddly peaceful. The noble lady lounged nearby, while the Lyseni ran a jeweled brush through her light locks.

"You have to choose."

Ilia cocked her head. The queenly lady and her maidens showed no signs of having heard. Ilia waited and listened, but the voice did not come again. Instead, she watched Drogon learn the word _Dracarys_. The command had a lovely, foreign, sound to it, but a terrible meaning for any enemy of dragons. Ilia reached a hand to pet the black scaled beast, but as per usual, her hand just floated through the image. She must be dreaming then. It felt so real.

"You must choose."

Ilia sat up straight. She was certain there was a voice now. Looking around, noone else made to move. The room was still. Dany now stood flipping though a book of histories and songs of Westeros. Ilia sat at absolute attention, the voice was telling her to choose?

"Choose what?"

It was the first time she had spoken in a long time. After her first several attempts, Ilia had given up speaking. Though… since no one else could hear the voice, perhaps the voice could hear _her_.

"What do I have to choose?" she asked.

"Words."

Ilia remained silent. The voice wasn't making sense. She grew irritated. If this was death, or limbo, or heaven, it was beginning to frustrate her. No one knew she existed. No one could hear her, or talk to her. So, what was this place about?

"You must choose the words... _feyr, ak, zik_…"

"Choose _those_ words?" Ilia raised her brow. How could she choose? Why couldn't she keep them all? Viserion flew in her vision, and she jumped back. Then she grew angry. If Dany could have three dragons, and that wasn't too much, why couldn't she keep three words? It wasn't fair. People had _died_ for her to know those words. Her _mother_, the Deer, Stevron… it would make all their sacrifice so worthless. Those words were meant for _her_.

"… _feyr, ak, zik_…"

What would happen if she didn't? Would she be forced to stay in this place? Ilia waited while Dany lay down to sleep with the Lyseni girl. The three dragons were caged now, and curled up in sleep. Night descended on the luxurious home of the queenly lady. Ilia could hear desert crickets and a few carriages rolling in the streets. Otherwise, it was eerily silent.

"… _feyr, ak, zik_…"

She couldn't stay here, what about her family? Her siblings? She couldn't abandon them. Ilia scrunched her eyes. She still couldn't bear the thought of giving up on those words.

"Charity…"

Charity? Give them… give them away?! Ilia stood and paced. Dany snored lightly. She could, couldn't she? Give them to people. Good people. Ilia thought of the young wolf-king. No, no, not him. His people would never accept witchcraft. Lady Catelyn was a believer in the seven, and would never be happy with her son then. Who could she trust but family? Colmar… Colmar was always so fascinated with her fire power. If she could… if she could…. The voice seemed to understand her wishes.

"… _ak, zik…_"

Only two left. Who else? Wendel. Ilia could trust Wendel. Her oldest direct blood relative was always looking out for their family. Wendel was strong and knightly. He may pretend to be crass, but he had a good heart. But… only immense power would satisfy his insatiable appetite for renown.

"… _ak_…"

Yes, that was the way it had to be. Ilia sighed and felt something leave her. The power of those words?

"Ak!" she shouted.

And "ak" was heard as Ilia woke. _Back and forth, back and forth_. Her vision rocked. Sunlight streamed through the leaves of the forest canopy overhead. The light was painful to look at. Her head was pounding. Her throat and mouth were dry. Ilia felt nausea rise within her, and she groaned. She must have been strapped to the horse, for confinement or stability, because she couldn't manage to move her arms or legs up or down. Dismounting would not be an option any time soon.

"Awake are you?" Colmar voice was light, and japey.

Ilia groaned and tried to tell him. Tried to communicate what just happened. She wanted him to try. Try to use it. Did it work? Or was she just left one word forever? What if she _was_ just dreaming?

"We're on the road, you're on Walder's horse. We left the Crag three days ago. We'll be traveling closer to northwestern edges of the countryside. We don't want to run into the chaos of the Riverlands. Ryman won the little argument between our family and the Starks. It looks like the Frey army will be headed for home. We are a lighter company, so our little fellowship will arrive first. The Maester insisted on coming with us, he's quite fascinated by your "witchcraft' he calls it… told me he couldn't decide whether it was the work of evil or a blessing from the seven. I'm sure he'll talk to you later."

Ilia mouthed the words. She had to get him to understand. She reached for his hands on the reigns of her horse. But he misunderstood, and squeezed her fingers reassuringly.

"Wendel is with our company, and Walder Rivers. They're to be knighted when we return to the Crossing. Ryman insisted on it. He thinks that it was very brave and knightly of Wendel to risk life and limb for his family and our reputation. Walder will be knighted for bravery and loyalty in battle. Can you believe it? Wendel's only sixteen! That's only one year older than the Kingslayer was! I wish I could be knighted. Father wrote to me and told me that I might be promised to the faith, since the Stark alliance isn't working in our favor any more. Personally, I think Father is acting proud and selfish. You agree, don't you Ilia?"

Ilia kept trying to tell him. _Feyr, feyr, feyr, feyr_. Why couldn't she make out the words?

"Don't worry, the Maester says you'll be feeling much better after a few days. He thinks you caught the sickness from Echo, who was playing with some sick children in the kitchens the day before, the master caught him. He said sickness can travel on rats, and cats, and dogs sometimes, to get other people sick. That's why it's important for high lords and ladies to bathe. But that sounds a little silly. I think you got sick from using so much magic at the same time. You've never used both those words simultaneously, have you? I bet _that's_ what made you sick. The Maester wrote my thought down in his little book."

"… _feyr…_ please Colmar… try…"

"Are you cold? I gave you both my blankets."

"No… try… try…" Ilia showed him a weak fist and palm, but he still only furrowed his eyebrows.

"You can tell me when we get to the Crossing, sister. You're still too sick for anything. I'm sorry for disturbing you, I was just so excited that you were awake. Get some sleep."

"No… try…"

Colmar left her. He returned soon enough with a flask of something. He uncorked the contents and poured it into her mouth. _Dreamwine_. She knew it as soon as it touched her lips. But she was powerless to stop it.

"Sleep."

Colmar smoothed her hair, and Ilia slept. She was too angry, too frustrated, and too tired to argue.


	17. Chapter 17: Without a Light

Chapter Seventeen: Without a Light

At odd moments, she would wake. When Ilia was conscious, she could remember being brought down from the saddle, and covered in blankets. Colmar still insisted on giving her dreamwine so she would sleep at night. Walder Rivers was at her side. She could see his face and fine armor those times she managed to open her eyes. Soon, however, the rhythm of the walking horse lulled her into an uneasy sleep. The next time she woke, the horse was no longer beneath her.

Ilia was in the dark.

At first she was confused. Where was the light? Where was the horse? Her brothers? Even Walder Rivers was absent. Had they reached the Twins? Her head hurt, her back hurt, and her mouth felt full of cotton. Soon, panic took hold. She tried to move her hands, but they were bound together with something heavy and cold. Ilia tried to move across the floor, but another chain stopped her from making any significant progress. Where was she? There were no candles or torches, no light for her to see. Her neck ached from sleeping in a contorted position, so Ilia could not look too far to the left or right.

"Walder?" Ilia's voice was scratchy and she was parched. "Is there anyone there?"

Silence. Silence and darkness. She was very afraid now.

"Hello? Please, if you're there—"

No response. Only the distant _plink, plink, plink_ of a far away drip. She peered in the darkness.

The first day was the worst. After many long hours, Ilia felt afraid.

On the first day, she cried and hugged herself. She screamed for help or an answer. She begged for justice and a fair trial. She promised the darkness that, if they would only talk to her family, they would surely receive a handsome ransom for her return. Ilia even asked for Robb Stark. Then, having exhausted all bribery, she began shouting threats. A man came in once, with a torch. She pleaded with him, but he only left a bowl of grey slop. Unsatisfied with his lack of response, she threw it across the room. It hit the bars. She hated that man. Ilia did not sleep. The drip in the distance, would not stop. She sang songs to herself, from ballads to bar songs. In too little time, she exhausted her private repertoire of music, and the silence returned.

_Plink, plink, plink_.

The drip nearly drove her to insanity that night... if it was night. The man never came back. Ilia wished she had seen his face. Would she recognize him? She needed to know more about the man.

On the second day, Ilia wished she hadn't thrown the bowl. She was hungry so she chewed her nails, and a lot of the skin around them. It didn't help. This time, a new man came. He was shorter and fatter than the last man, but he didn't wear a visor and helmet. Ilia asked him where she was. He chuckled darkly.

"Where haven't _you_ been?"

That answer upset her more than the silence would have. She tried to treaty with this man too. He left quickly. Ilia tasted the grey slop. It was awful. The texture made her sick. Her stomach revolted and she threw it up in her waste bucket. The smells made her vomit more. An hour later, she managed to stomach the rest of the porridge.

The drip, the drip, the drip kept dripping. Ilia hit her head against the wall. Her back was on fire.

On what Ilia believed to be the third day, her arm started to go numb and tingly. She called and called for help. Fearful for her limbs, she rubbed her muscles up and down. That helped remotely. The fat man came again. The light from the torch nearly blinded her.

"Please, please stop the dripping, the dripping… it never ends."

Grey slop. Cruel laughter. He spilled half of it. Her stomach clenched painfully. As she was eating, her arm started to go numb again. Ilia had to stop and rub and roll her neck to get it to stop. They left her a jug of water this time. She gulped it gratefully. Remembering an old tale about a sailor, she stopped gulping the water, and forced herself to sip. Ilia wished she could see something. She struggled with her arm the rest of the day.

Some time passed before Ilia was given a straw mattress. Perhaps someone cared.

_Plink, plink, plink_.

On the fourth day, a new set of footsteps reached Ilia's ears. Torchlight and a familiar voice. Colmar. Colmar and Wendel. She was being held here for her own good. Father's sick idea of a punishment. It had, in fact, been six days. She was figuring all the time wrong. Wendel had tried to bring up her case to the Lord of the Crossing. Lothar, Ryman, Father, and the rest were convening to discuss the Northern problem. Ilia was being considered heavily. She may have to marry someone else. That is, if they still wanted her. Ilia's reputation had been damaged at the Crag. Perhaps a nice, older man who would bring money to the Crossing...?

Echo had run off, at the sight of the Twins. Colmar had rode out and tracked him down. He refused to enter the Crossing. Ilia nodded, that made sense. Echo could always sense danger, and the big cat knew Lord Frey held no affection for him.

"And… how long?"

"Negotiations are still happening, be patient."

Be patient? Be patient? Stop the fucking dripping! Just stop the dripping and Ilia would wait for days. She would wait for weeks. Just let it be quiet! She couldn't sleep! The food was awful! Her limbs were going numb, what if she lost an arm or a leg? Colmar recoiled from the bars due to her yelling. Wendel just banged his sword against the wall. He was angry. Ilia needed to stop acting like a wild woman and calm down. They left soon after.

Ilia forgot to mention the dream. She even forgot to draw the water from the jug. It was already empty.

Alone, and feeling empty, she laughed nervously. That laughter sounded odd in the room. Ilia immediately stopped.

_Plink, plink, plink_.

Ilia began to reminisce on the ninth day. _An Encyclopedia of Westerosi Beasts_, _The Traveler's Guide to Lyseni_, _The Emergence of the Seven, The Lost Children_… all books she had devoured at a young age. Why had she read so feverishly as a child? Why had she chosen a study to hide in? Was she really that afraid of the world… of her father? The answer was obvious. Yes. She had been so afraid. So terrified to leave this study, to leave this world. How many dinner's did she forgo, in favor of a dilapidated chair and a dank, dusty room? Too many. Because, deep down, as a young girl, she knew the Lord of the Crossing would never dare set foot in Annara Farring's secret place. For fear of her ghost, or for fear of her murdered spirit's vengeance.

She began to dream about another life. In another life, maybe he mother would have lived. In another life, would Wendel have been so cold? Would Colmar have been so cowardly? Walder Rivers could have been a lord. Maybe, she could have been happy with him, in this new world. But, he was a bastard, and Wendel was Lord Frey's trueborn son, and in _this_ world, those facts mattered.

Why did she suffer? Why did anyone suffer? Was there a purpose to life? These were all things Ilia wondered in her cell. She took to lying in the straw mattress. The jailor came to change her bucket. She was grateful, the smell was gone for at least an hour or two. Food took so long that day… so long. Ilia dreamt she was eating her own hair, and dancing with a lion. It was a nice dream. Did she dream anymore? What if she was awake? She couldn't tell if her eyes were open or closed anymore. Everything was dark, oh so dark, all the time, forever, never ending dark.

_Plink, plink, plink_.

Walder came. Dear, sweet Walder. Of course Walder sent her the straw bed. Of course, he always cared for her. He held her through the bars and she cried and cried. He pet her hair so sweetly. Told her that he was doing everything he could. Father wasn't listening. Lord Frey was angry with her, oh so angry. Ilia sobbed into his shoulder. She told him how she wished things had been different. She never took off his bracelet, ever, and she would marry him and be very good and quiet. Ilia begged him stop the dripping, please. She folded her hands around his head and kissed him. Stop the dripping, please, love, stop the dripping.

Walder stopped the dripping. Ilia bestowed so much gratitude and titles as her white knight, her savior, and her love. She kissed him through the bars. Walder was happy with that. He promised to help her as much as he could. Ilia praised him more. He even left the torch to provide her light until it burned out. When the light was gone, she hiccupped.

That night, she was given an extra carrot and a small sliver of turkey. Walder would look out for her. Thank the gods for her bastard brother.

With the dripping gone, she began to regret kissing him. The sound must have been driving her insanity. What if she was forced to marry someone else? Would he still expect her to kiss him all the time? Anxiety and dread clawed at her stomach, along with the hunger. Together, they created a nausea that had her head spinning. At least, she thought it was spinning. It might have been running, or dancing, or… was the drip back? Sometime she thought she heard it? Echo had such nice fur. Her nails must be dirty. Was she thinking plainly? Her left arm, again! Why did it go numb?

"It's dark again," Ilia giggled. No one answered. It was dark. Dark, dark, dark. A dark place for dark thoughts.

The highlight of her day was the arrival of food. Ilia stopped trying to talk to the men. They never answered and were less likely to spill her food if she didn't ask any questions. The carrots and turkey never came again. It was easier to eat now. The jug was filled every once and a while. Without any light, she tried to summon the water. Ilia hit herself in the face with the contents of the jug. Almost wasting a precious resource, she vowed never to try _ak_ again. The word for fire never worked, as she figured. Ilia regretted giving that particular word away. It would have been so useful now. A light, just a little flame to keep her company and make her happy. The warmth would be so intoxicating. She could imagine it, every once and a while, dancing out of her palms.

The cell _was_ damp. Ilia developed a small cough. It hurt her back and lungs to cough, though, so she was forced to suppress it as often as possible. Once, Ilia remembered her power to heal. She fixed the cough. She was so proud and pleased with herself after that. Lord Frey would not win every battle. No, not this time. What time was it? Was the war over? Did they forget she was trapped in here? The metal cuff around her hands chaffed her skin. The bonds around her legs were cumbersome. It was difficult to walk and there wasn't enough space. Ilia was forced to sit on the bed and think more. Ilia forgot time and space, and her mind drifted.

On an unknown day, Colmar, Wendel, _and_ Walder came. It had been several weeks. That explained everything, somehow. Ilia told them about her dream.

"We were feeding you dreamwine every spare moment, if you recall."

Walder didn't understand why the dream was important. Colmar believed her instantly. His nature was always sweet and understanding. Colmar held her hand through the bars and told her that he would try to get their mother's grimoire from Riverrun. That way, he could study and make a decent effort to summon fire. Ilia smiled. Walder looked at her askance.

"She told me I had to choose," Ilia explained, wanting him to understand. "She didn't give me a choice. I thought that family would be the best choice… I thought…"

"You made the right choice then," Wendel asserted, "in this life, you can only trust your closest family. Well done, sister, but explain to me this. What have you given to me and how am I to use it?"

Ilia weakly detailed the events surrounding Stevron's death. By the end of her account, Wendel's grin had grown cannibalistic. The image of his face in the torchlight would remain with her until the last of her days. And Walder, poor Walder. He looked so hurt. How could she choose Wendel over Walder? What type of person was she? How blind was she? Wendel vowed to get the magic book from Riverrun. It was in enemy hands, and that was not acceptable. Walder lingered behind after her two full blood brother's departed.

"I'm so sorry…"

He pulled her toward the bars with the chain connected to her wrists. Her bastard brother kissed her roughly this time. It was not pleasant, nor nice. He stuck his tongue in her mouth and she froze in fear. It was over soon enough. Rivers licked his lips and forgave her. It was alright, as long as she let him do that. Walder left again. Where was the nice Walder from days ago? At least… at least Wendel was open about his cunning and treachery. Walder held it secret and close to his heart, pretending to play a valiant knight but still climbing to higher stations through trickery. They were all trickery. Wendel might have been right.

Ilia didn't know what she wanted then.

Actually, Ilia did know what she wanted. Ilia wanted Wendel to stop being an ass, Walder to stop kissing her, King Robb to save her, a feather bed and some good food and water. Ilia also wanted Arwyn and Echo. Ilia wanted a lot of things that weren't possible. She wanted to go back in time, and be embraced by her mother. Ilia wanted to read a book again. Ilia wanted to end the war, and ride a horse. Ilia wanted to wield fire and lightning again, not useless, weak water. Then again, Ilia was weak and useless, so maybe life was as it should be. She had abandoned Arwyn, why shouldn't the world abandon her?

_Plink, plink, plink_. The jailor laughed. That bastard found the cork in the ceiling Walder placed. Ilia screamed profanities at him.

_Plink, plink, plink_.


	18. Chapter 18: Out of the Frying Pan

Chapter Eighteen: Out of the Frying Pan

The lights were on.

She was pulled early that morning, dunked in the cold water of the Green Fork of the Trident, and stuffed into a brown scratchy dress far too large for her newly acquired skeleton frame. The maid cinched the laces tightly, scoffed in disappointment, and called for selections from Arwyn's old wardrobe. The bright color of the chosen garb lessened the sickly paleness of Ilia's skin. Sitting on a rickety wooden stool, her hair was detangled painfully which brought tears to her eyes. The crotchety old women took a knife to a tangled mass, shortening her hair by six inches. A pounding persisted between in her temples that increased tenfold when her limp tresses were pulled taught into a braid.

Water was her salvation. When the maiden left, Ilia threw open the windows of her old room and feverishly drunk from a cracked flowerpot which hadn't held petunias in years. She was lucky it had rained all that morning. The sky was ominously grey and the Green Fork was rushing water and white-capped waves against the Twins. Icy raindrops struck her face and hands brutally but she no longer cared to notice the discomfort. Having drunk her fill, she upended the drawers of her vanity, searching for a forgotten walnut sack. The nuts cracked when she beat them with her wrought iron candelabra. Ilia beat the bag with an inhuman strength she would not have equated with her own. She beat the small sack as she would soon beat her father's face, his arms, and his legs.

The seed casing's remains scratched her knuckles when she reached for the nutmeat. Her mouth worked on the food with difficulty, while she at the bottom of the four-poster bed. They would not leave her unattended for long, and she knew had very little time to concoct a plan for escape. Her only course of action would be to head South, past the war torn territories of the Westerlands. Her father had already shown her that he would steal her away from the Starks any time he pleased.

Ilia cracked nuts, paced, and drank for an hour before a quiet knocking came at her door. She tried the handle to no avail.

"It won't open, you fools," Ilia snarled, "I'm locked in here."

There was shuffling, some muttered voices, and then footsteps that grew distant. A door opened and closed somewhere in the corridor and she waited impatiently. The wait wasn't long, because soon she heard Wendel swearing and grunting just outside her window. Ilia hoisted him inside, and assisted Walder Rivers as well, who was carrying Colmar on his back. They had crossed from Arwyn's adjacent room into hers via a few footholds in the stone.

Once the boys had shaken the rain off their cloaks and tunics, Wendel took her hand and sighed. He gestured to their younger brother at his side. Colmar slipped toward the fireplace and with a small spoken word, lit it with a fire from his palm. Ilia remembered to smile proudly at him, for his sake, but at the same time she was filled with a bitter jealousy.

"He's been practicing," Walder remarked, "and not narrowly. It's been every day with this lot. Even Wendel has come to enjoy your generous _gift_," he snarled the last word and wouldn't meet her eyes. This was the first time they'd been in such close proximity since Ilia's confinement, and she could not deny the tension in the air.

"Dear sister," Wendel shook his head, ignoring Walder's darkness. "I have some unfortunate and troubling news."

"What is it?" Ilia retracted her hand self consciously, picked at her uneven and brittles nails. "Don't wait for the right moment. I am quite satisfied with being surprised for a lifetime. I need no more."

Wendel and Colmar exchanged views. If Wendel's hair had not been soaked, she could have sworn he was sweating with nerves again.

"Before we left the Crag, you were on good terms with the King in the North, were you not?"

"Good enough," Ilia agreed.

"Did you not have an agreement?"

"A practical one," she admitted, pacing toward the warmth of the fire. It was a long time since she had felt warm.

"Then you will be sad to hear…" Wendel paused as if to brace himself, "that there have been circulating rumors about the King and the daughter of the Westerling House. Jeyne Westerling, to be specific. I believe you may have known her during your stay in the Westerlands. Know this, the King approaches the Crossing this very day. Father plans to present you before the Starks to make our northern guests uncomfortable and perhaps to display his cruelty. He hopes to shake them."

Ilia's mind reeled, "but Jeyne was so… sweet. She _liked_ me."

"Seems she liked Robb Stark a little more," Walder scoffed.

"I don't understand… we had an agreement. He promised not to be unkind—"

"All this proves, dear sister, is that family truly is the only thing you can trust in this world. Worry no more about Robb Stark. _We _are the only people you can trust and I think you agree with me, as you've demonstrated with the generous charity of your power. I hope we can always look forward to your generosity in the future, should you find yourself overwhelmed with… _vocabulary._"

"Your torture will soon be at an end. The King will push for a wedding soon once he sees your… current condition—"

"Is it that bad?" Ilia touched her face with hesitation which offput her balance. Vision spinning, she was forced to sit at the edge of the bed, "am I completely unrecognizable?"

"It's not so terrible—"

"Hush, there's no room for merciful half truths. It is not horrendous, Ilia, but you look sickly and emaciated. Which reminds me…" Wendel pulled a bulky handkerchief from some secret pocket of his, "… I have brought you some extra bread and meat, as has Colmar. As it is, I also have other news to complicate matters further. Recently I have been taken into the confidence of our father's most inner circle. As such, I have been privy to delicate conversations of the estate and the management of our foreign affairs. The main topic of late has always surrounded this quarrel between wolves and lions, as you can imagine."

"Our good relative, lame Lothar, has suggested a change of loyalties. Our family has schemed for these past weeks and finally reached an agreement. There is no way around it. The Northern army and the Starks believe they are marching to a wedding… but they will receive a massacre."

"A…" Ilia felt sick, "a massacre? What do you mean?"

"I mean," Wendel closed his eyes, "that you will marry Robb Stark on the morrow, but you will not consummate the marriage. The King will be dead before he has the opportunity. The Frey's are bent on the destruction of the Starks. We have thrown our loyalties to the Lannister's and the crown. It is hopeless Ilia, hopeless… unless…."

"Unless?"

"Our lord Father doesn't know that _we_ know," Colmar interceded, pointing at Ilia, Walder and himself, "things have changed. We cannot hope to stop a massacre, but we can hope to slip away, and perhaps slip away with a few influential people."

"A few…" Ilia began.

"The King himself," Wendel continued, "with the King of the North owing us a life debt, we are free to expect a reward from him, a substantial reward if we can escape with one or two others. We were wondering if you knew just who…"

"Lord Umber... Smalljon…"

"Perfect—"

"Is there not a way to send word, perhaps delay some of the forces?"

"They will be here tonight, Ilia, you know that. There's no stopping this wedding," Walder Rivers grimaced, "no stopping it."

"With the King in our debt, and few of his most influential lords… we may be able to gain even further favor in the future…" Wendel trailed off, suddenly unsure. He fingered the pommel of his sword and turned away from her. Staring out the window, the sound of the rain pervaded the sudden awkward silence of the room. Colmar looked at his feet, his shoulders tense.

"Now what is it?" Ilia asked, "please, no more secrets."

"You must understand, this is the gravest of treasons we speak of," Wendel whispered, "to betray one's family name. But... I think we all agree, we have never truly belonged here. Not us four. With the King in the North, nay, the lords of the North, we have a chance at a new life. Here, we are but a blade of grass in a field, a sword in an armory… but if we break out, deny the mold… _Here,_ we are _nothing _but the twentieth and twentieth plus sons and daughters of a voracious old man. _Here_, our cousins plot to murder us for greater favor with Ser Ryman, who already grows suspicious of our loyalties and your power. When Ryman inherits, what chance for renown is there?"

"They're planning to _murder_—" Ilia choked.

"What did you expect? The dark magic you uncovered will die with us, and there will be no threat to Ryman's inheritance. A stronger family within the Frey's would weaken the unity of the house."

"I won't serve a greedy, unjust lord until I die a second class death," Wendel glared, "We are not followers, Ilia, we could be lords and queens, and we were meant to be."

* * *

It was too bright for her maladjusted eyes. The cavernous ceiling of the hall creaked against the winds. Wendel shielded her from view.

"Ah, isn't she a pretty one? Isn't she?" Lord Frey extended a gnarled hand, "bring her forward Sers, bring her forward, hehe."

The rain battered the iron and glass windows of the hall and the wind created a cold draft. Goosebumps prickled Ilia's arms, try as she might to warm them. Perhaps the cold in the room was due to their company, and not the air. Wendel gripped her arm tightly, a show of malevelance for the benefit of Lord Frey, and dragged her forward. Ilia played along, as she was told. The weaker she looked, the more pleased their father would be.

"You see, I've returned her to you in a better state, haven't I? Haven't I?"

Lord Frey turned to their audience with his mocking words echoing in the rafters. The Starks and several of his lords, Umbers, Mormonts, Pipers and Blackwoods included, were seated, the remains of a plate of bread in front of them. _Odd,_ Ilia thought, but dared look no further. The boy King did not look half so frightening without the menacing figure of Grey Wind at his feet. There was also an older man Ilia did not recognize, but judging by his red-brown hair and fierce beard, he was a Tully relative but not the famed Blackfish.

For some reason, Roslin was seated at the table. Ilia gave her an odd look. Roslin looked away, lower lip trembling. _Also strange_.

"How very kind of you, lord Frey," Catelyn Stark managed to finally respond. The King's nostrils were flaring, a sign of his displeasure.

"Heh! Kindess, she spouts, kindness," Lord Frey stood. His back was humped and curved in places, and Walder Frey's walk was heavy and uneven. He thump, thump, thumped closer and closer to his prey. Up close, he looked even older. The age spots on his baldness made a pattern similar to the constellation of the goat. The fear left her and she almost felt like laughing when she realized the very simple truth that Ilia, a sixteen year old _maiden_, was now _taller_ than her terrible father. Life was filled with juicy ironies.

Lord Frey grasped her chin, twisting it left and right.

"What do you say, girl? Is your father kind to you? Heh?"

"Very kind," Ilia replied meekly.

"And you love your father?"

"I love you, father."

"And do you want to _leave_ your father for the harsh, cold, northlands?"

"… if it please you, my lord."

"If it _please me_, ha! You hear those words? If it _please me_. Never doubt the persuasion of the Drippy Dungeons, my King, Never doubt. Silence is something even the pious can handle. But the Drippy Dungeons drive even the most spirited souls to madness. Can't escape the drip drops now, can you? Not without my command. No, not without my command, heh. Don't you agree, Ser Ryman? Soon, your command, I suppose. Won't that be a fortuitous day for _you?_"

"A day of mourning for us all, father," Ryman responded drolly, tearing a chunk of bread with his incisors. He washed down the hard bread with three heavy gulps of wine. Ryman was looking even fatter than usual. His new position suited his waistline.

Lord Frey snorted and hobbled away from Ilia. Thank the gods his stench finally left her nostrils.

"My guests! My honored guests, eat at my table, bread and salt, cheese and butter. Be welcome beneath my roof. Do with your future queen as you wish, I care not for spoilt goods." he called over his shoulder and disappeared around some dark, hidden corridor reserved for the Lord.

"We thank you for your hospitality, my lord," Robb replied, sarcastically or not, Ilia could not tell. Lord Frey's cackles replied.

Lady Catelyn grabbed her right arm tightly and she was steered away from her brother. Wendel snorted and let her go with a whispered _goodbye _and _do not jeopardize our plans_. Lame Lothar guided the Northern guests through the hallways, describing with enthusiasm each dead Lord's portrait as they passed, the origin of the Towers and the luxury of their residences. Ilia was gently shoved by Catelyn through the doorway to a large chamber decorated in Tully red and blue. The colors were unnaturally bright for the atmosphere of the Crossing. Ilia immediately noticed the tray of sweetbread laid out for the Lord and Lady, she was auspiciously placed by the same table.

"I'm sorry you had to suffer so," the Lady frowned and scrutinized her appearance. "I suppose we should be thankful you weren't shipped across Westeros to another lord's son. There is still an opportunity to rectify this mess."

The Lady looked weary and impatient. Her eyes shifted to the windows and then to the doors. Her brother, Edmure as Ilia learned, began a casual conversation about guards and Roslin. Ilia snuck a handful of bread off of the table.

"—She's a maid on the eve of her wedding. A few tears are to be expected."

Ilia bit her lip. She knew why Roslin was crying, but could not tell. The world was a cruel place and she couldn't save their lives anyway.

"This one isn't crying…"

"She was damn near starved to death, see how she stuffs her face? Something is not right here."

Ilia didn't think she was _stuffing_ her face. Peasant _stuffed_, ladies nibbled. Well, perhaps she should slow her pace.

"Is it possible the girl is barren?"

Oh no, Ilia faced two sets of curious eyes. The Lord of Riverrun cocked his head to the side inquisitively. Several weeks ago, Ilia would have found the question invasive but something had changed in her. Ilia shook her head. No, Roslin wasn't barren. Or at least, that rumor hadn't reached her yet.

"There's no reason to believe that Lady Roslin was afflicted with an illness that left her unable to conceive?"

"Not that I'm aware, no." Ilia pursed her lips.

Done with their questioning, Lady Catelyn steered her into her private rooms and sat her in front of the fire. Ilia shivered and leaned into the warmth. It was a long time since she had felt this warm. The Lady ignored her for the most part. Ilia was content with the situation, only having to answer a few questions every minute or so, as they came to Lady Catelyn's mind.

"Were you beaten?"

"No."

"Are you ill?"

"No."

"How long were you imprisoned?"

"I don't know exactly."

The hard one to answer was, "were you raped?" Ilia hesitated, remembering Walder Rivers harsh kissed and empty promises.

"No."

"I have something of yours," Lady Catelyn reached into a trunk and pulled a wrapped parcel from the bottom. Ilia sunk further into the small couch as the weight of the item was deposited in her lap. "It is not mine and I have never been a thief. You probably missed it. I know you were attached."

The grimoire. Ilia touched the cover reverently. Something thrummed and hummed inside of her. Finally reunited wither her mother's work, she thumbed the book, inspecting it for damage. Finding none, Ilia turned to the other items in the parcel. The satchel she left behind still contained the large, mysterious Pearl. She hid that from view. There was no reason for Lady Stark to know anything about her precious stone.

"You will stay here, while I conduct business, you will touch nothing and speak to no one. I will collect you later to be brought before my son. Before I leave though, you must answer me this. I want no lies. I want no half-truths. Remember that on the morrow you will drop your maiden name and be a part of the Stark house. Your loyalties may be divided now, but what benefits my son will soon benefit you too. So, tell me and answer me true. Are we safe here?"

Ilia paused. Could she answer that question? She turned and stared at Tully blue, long and hard. As difficult as it was, she could not tell Lady Catelyn the truth. Even now, Frey guards were posted just outside the doorway. Lame Lothar was listening to this very conversation just beyond the wall, in a secret corridor. There was no hope for Lady Catelyn, as kind as she was. The Lady did not deserve to die, but neither did Ilia. _Do not jeopardize our plans_. She couldn't save every life, but maybe a few would be enough.

"Nowhere is safe, Lady Catelyn."


	19. Chapter 19: Ice

Chapter Nineteen: Ice

The stockings itched, the undergarments were frilly and hot, and worst of all the smell of the perfume made her head pound. Ilia shook off the offensive bottle and tried to take a step down from the raised pedestal. Roslin stood crying opposite her.

"No, not now girl," the old seamstress dragged her back to standing. Ilia was forced to comply elsewise the hundred pins in the woman's hands would prick her skin and make her bleed onto the white dress. Ilia turned, enraged, and glared heatedly at the sagging skin just beneath the woman's eyes.

"You should thank the gods you're pretty," the crone snapped.

"Yes, I should. If I was ugly, then I wouldn't be getting married or have been bothered in the first place," Ilia smacked the woman's hands and made a second attempt to get off the platform. "I'd be fat and ugly and perfectly content to prick young girls in the arse day after day."

"Hmph!" the sack of bones tutted but let her go. It was a compliment, in a weird sense, to have a lady envy a seamstress.

Roslin sniffed and snuffled and hiccupped and Ilia turned her glare to her. A large jug of red wine had passed by the guards earlier and went unnoticed by the two other occupants of the room. Perhaps it was a wedding gift from her brothers. Ilia poured herself a generous glass and gulped happily. Today was better than yesterday. Ilia had slept on a down feather bed last night, free of any drippy drops and with a full stomach of sweetbread. She dreamt about the silver haired woman and her flying lizards, and by morning she woke up, almost convinced that her entire imprisonment and all these troublesome murder plots were just a figment of her imagination.

But they weren't and her blessed, _stupid_ sister Roslin reminded her with every aggravating sniffle and every ridiculous _whine_.

"Shut. Up." Ilia said through clenched teeth.

Roslin gave her a pitying look that Ilia did not like.

"It's not going to get any better. The real world is far worse. You could be cold, and starving, with nowhere to go and no family. We are so _lucky_ to be Lord's daughters and you're going to be the Lady of Riverrun so at least be thankful for your circumstance."

Roslin stared at her incredulously. "Don't you… don't you _know_?"

"Of course I do, that's why I'm drinking, stupid sister, and you should too."

"You're… you're so mean."

Ilia furrowed her brow. Yes, she was mean now. They were all mean now. Wendel was mean. Colmar was getting meaner, and soon Waltyr and Elmar would be mean. If Arwyn was still alive, she would not doubt be the meanest of them all. Walder Rivers was mean in his own passive aggressive manner. Lady Catelyn was mean. Her father was always mean and he had lived the longest of any other Frey. Perhaps it was the Frey way. _Growing Meaner_.

"You shouldn't speak to the future _Queen of the North_ that way," Ilia mocked. "I'll chop off your head and feed your innards to the direwolves."

Roslin was horrified. She blinked and blinked but she stopped crying. Ilia gulped more of the red wine, which was beginning to taste better and better with every sip.

"_Don't you know? Don't you know?_" Ilia questioned, repeated Roslin's own words from earlier.

"Know what?" Roslin quivered, but stuck her chin out defiantly. Ah, that was better. The seamstress was giving her a strange, warning look. The old hag glanced once toward the guard at the door and Ilia knew at once just _how fed up _she was. Ilia silently crossed the way with a jug of water she found next to the wine.

"Don't you know about _me_?" Ilia drew out the last word, raised her eyebrows and bent forward to meet Roslin's eyes.

Roslin shook her head no. She was lying. Otherwise she wouldn't have been so afraid. A bead of sweat formed on her sister's brow.

"Certainly you've heard?" Ilia thrust the jug into Roslin's flat chest and drew out the liquid with her open palms.

Roslin gasped and dropped the jug. It shattered and clay pieces flew in each direction. The crash of the jug sounded so sweet to older woman yelped and called for the guards. Ilia splayed her hands out and said a now familiar word.

"_Il_" _Ice_.

The water spread into five, beautiful shards and Ilia directed them at the woman.

"Is there a problem?"

_Damn it._ Someone new was always entering into the equation. It was never her time to shine. Ilia dropped the shard and the water splashed to the floor, leaving a wet stain in the red carpet. She really would have liked to practice more with her new word. Studying her mother's grimoire last night was very informative. Ilia should have studied the book more seriously in her past, but there never seemed to be enough time when she fled the Crossing with Arwyn and during her stay at Riverrun. Mastering one word was difficult enough, but age had made her more adept. Now that she had the power of _Ak_, water, she was free to explore any of the other words derived from the _school of Ak._ Ice would be the most useful and the most lethal. Why couldn't she have kept fire? Everyone was afraid of fire? Especially after the Targaryen dynasty.

"Don't you know it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?"

"I'll take that chance," the King looked serious and stern. He begged her to be excused and the seamstress agreed, not that she had any other choice. Robb looked resplendent and royal in a dark brown tunic. The Stark sigil was stiched to his breast, on his cloak, and onto his long sleeves. The shirt beneath was silver grey and fur trimmed like his King's cloak. Ilia had lost her mother's cloak in Riverrun or the Crag. Lady Catelyn had told her it was probably stolen. It was a pity. Robb looked every bit the King of the North and Ilia almost laughed. Of course, she would look less pretty than her groom. It was only natural.

He grabbed for her hand and she gave it. Again, not that she had a choice. Lately it seemed as if all the decisions in life were taken from her. Maybe there was no free will? Robb took her up a long stairway. Ilia knew the path, they were headed for the library.

"There is an unused room there where we can speak privately."

"It's not unused," Ilia snapped. The King gave her a look. "It's my mother's study and _I use it_. The Maester only tells everyone that in the hopes that all the books and furniture will finally be put into storage and he'll never have to dust it again."

"Then we will speak there," he left no room for argument.

Ilia lit the candles when they entered the dark and dusty room. _If only_ she had kept the word for fire. Fire was so much more powerful than water. With fire, she could burn cities down, or be a dragon. But she wasn't a dragon, she was a bridge over water. Water only splashed things about. At least she could freeze a few things if the situation grew dire. But.. no kingdom has ever been conquered with ice… She kept the curtains closed in case anyone was spying from across the bridge. Ilia shifted uncomfortably in the lacy white dress and scrutinized the room for stolen items. There would probably never be another opportunity to be in this room. The reality of her situation hit her hard. Where would the books go? Where would the desk go?

Perhaps she could take them with her. Perhaps…

"You look… very nice," the King cleared his throat awkwardly, and suddenly she was standing in front of a sixteen-year-old boy again and she was very relieved. Ilia sat heavily in the armchair before the fireplace and lifted her feet up like she used to do when she was a little girl. She crossed her arms over her knees, a position she always felt was comforting.

"So do you," Ilia nodded, then remembered what Wendel told her after being released from her captivity. "I'm sure Jeyne Westerling would approve."

Robb Stark's face paled comically and he swallowed visibly. He shoulders hunched in a defensive position, expecting an onslaught but Ilia refused to speak first. They had had _an agreement_. He should have to speak first. The _mighty, not cruel_ Robb Stark.

"Of course, she might prefer you with no clothes on, I'm not certain. Understandably, I have no image to compare your resplendency with, but you could show me now and then I could tell you. Or you could find all the ladies of the lower houses in the Riverlands, herd them into a room, and fuck them. As you please, your Grace, as you please."

How comical his expression was. He was shocked, perhaps he had never heard a lady swear before. Jeyne probably _never_ swore. Wendel would be so proud. Soon, however, the King's face took a dark turn. Lord Stark was making his reappearance. He glowered angrily and his boots stomped as he took three menacing steps toward her. Ilia opened her palms, ready to splash him if he became insolent.

"You don't know what happened, you make accusations but _you don't know anything either_."

"No, I've never _suffered_ a day in my life," she flipped her skirt to the side dramatically, showing the welts on her ankles from the chains briefly before letting the fabric settle back over them.

"That _wasn't_ me," Robb retorted, "I would never do anything like that, not to a wife, or a daughter or son, or a brother—""

He chocked on the last word. Ashamed, Robb turned to the side and hid his face. Ilia wasn't sure what to say because the situation suddenly became awkward.

"Did your Maester teach you about the Greyjoy Rebellion?" Robb asked quietly, facing the empty fireplace. He did not wait for a response.

"Lord Greyjoy was forced to surrender at Pyke to the forces of my father's and our Baratheon allies. My father took a ward that day. A boy. I would, in years to come, consider him my brother. _Theon Greyjoy_," the King spat, "was given into the care of my father as a ward. A hostage, Theon always reminded us that he was a _hostage_. He always remembered, even though he was treated as a son and _brother_. He ate at our table, danced in our halls, and yet never once had anything decent to complain about. He complained, a lot, but never sincerely. Brother, I called him and brother, I trusted him."

"I sent him to Pyke to offer terms of friendship to the Iron Islanders. We had a plan. He offered to go and I was foolish enough to let him. My mother warned me but I was younger then… I was more faithful. He took… he took Winterfell and… and… Bran and Rickon. He took them when my back was turned and I face South. I expected ships from the North and I only got treachery. Roose Bolton's bastard is flaying him now. But flaying Theon won't bring my brother's back to life."

Ilia crossed the room to where the King now knelt beside the fire. She wasn't entirely sure what to do. Ilia tried to remember what she would have done a year ago, when she was still a nice, young lady who spent too much time reading books. She couldn't remember what she should do. So, instead she said what the confused, bitter, and angry Ilia would say

"Neither will laying with Jeyne Westerling."

His hand came up. Ilia expected it to, and raised her palm in response. The water from the rain bucket near the windown leapt to action and dowsed the King before he could strike a blow. Robb sputtered, his hair stuck to his brow and obscured his vision. He angrily snorted and shook his head violently. The water shook from his hair and landed all around them. Ilia smirked.

"I just learned my brother's had been burnt alive."

"My father murdered my mother," Ilia said suddenly. She didn't know why she said it. Maybe she felt guilty for probing him so hard about Jeyne. It wasn't fair, she knew, when she had done so many wrong and dishonorable things herself. Like right now, she neglected to mention the impending massacre that would leave him heartbroken. "I've always known. In the back of my mind. He kills them all. That's why he always needs new wives. Younger and younger they get and he still pinches their arses and slaps their breasts. He imprisoned me like he imprisoned her. That's what he used the Drippy Dungeons for, illegitimate children and insolent wives. It's why all the bastards and sons are so cruel. It's why were all so sad. He's evil, you know."

Robb Stark shook the water from his hair a second time and patted her hand compassionately. From where they knelt in the darkness, she could imagine the pity on his face.

"I know," the King admitted. "I am not that cruel, I promise you. I didn't mean to… I didn't mean to raise my hand. I don't… I don't even recognize myself anymore."

"We had an agreement," Ilia pointed out. "I saved your life. You would have died."

"I haven't forgotten…we can still have an agreement," Robb looked determined.

"I suppose so," Ilia shrugged. "It's not as if there are any other options. What will the King do now?"

"I'm going home… we're going home. We will take back Winterfell and the seat of the North."

"I hope so," Ilia said, inspecting his fingernails and his hands, they were as calloused and as square as she remembered them. "What was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"You know," Ilia raised her eyebrows, then waggled them up and down as she had seen the soldiers do.

"Oh…" Robb gave her a scandalous look, "_Oh,_ you mean… it was nice."

"Just nice?" he didn't respond. Ilia took a strange delight in his discomfort. Perhaps it would not be so hard to manipulate this frigid Northern man after all. "You're forgiven, as long as you forgive me."

"For what?" Robb furrowed his brow.

"You'll know," Ilia released his hand and stood, "you'll know."

Ilia would not answer any of his questions after that, instead she inquired after Lord Umber and Smalljon, whom she was curious about. The two Umber men had shown her kindness and special care on the journey to the Crag and she hoped to repay their kindness tonight. Tonight. Tonight was growing closer.

Lady Catelyn was shocked and appalled to find the King and his future bride walking the halls together.

"Have you no decency anymore?" Ilia heard the scathing remark to her son and she walked away. The War and other things must have strained that relationship, because Ilia could not recall Lady Stark ever using that tone of voice with the King before. In Riverrun, she had seemed more understanding. Still, it was not Ilia's business, so she walked away from the heated whispers in pursuit of Joyeause.

Joyeause led her to a preparation tent. Ilia was forced to travel in a palanquin to hide her from the ravaging eyes of other men. Why should they bother, though? Nine out of ten of the men present were Frey soldiers anyway. A feast was ongoing in the fields already. Ilia whiffed the strong scent of ale mixed with roasted pig and chicken. Ilia could hear music too, drums and horns, lutes and flutes, harps and falsetto men. Most of all, Ilia noticed the rain. There was water everywhere. That was a good thing. A very good thing.

Horses were stamping their feet and neighing loudly, men were laughing raucously and they cheered when she passed. The men on foot shouted lewd things and Ilia was tempted to respond, but could not think of anything sufficient to say. She could fling ice at them, but that would only irritate the drunk ones.

Colmar was also escorting her. He described the setting with awe. The forces were such a huge size he could never count, and there were three large feasts tents for the wedding. The Stark tent was placed on drier ground, luckily, and the weddings would take place there.

All that was left, was her small part in an elaborate hoax. A hoax that would keep the King alive, whether he liked it or not.


	20. Chapter 20: The Happy Bride

Chapter Twenty: The Happy Bride

"More wine, my queen?"

Ah, more wine. Yes. Ilia held her goblet out wordlessly. Ser Meran's squire filled her cup to the brink and she smiled at him graciously. Two hours. The music was still playing. Robb tried once to get her feet onto the dancing floor but in retaliation Ilia froze his boots to the floor. The rain made it easy to find water. He did not find that amusing, but Wendel did.

Roslin was dancing, red eyed, with her new husband while looking imploring to the raised pedestal where the other bride and groom sat. Ilia raised her eyebrows disbelievingly and sip, sip, sipped.

An hour and a half until the game began. A roast duck was served at the high table and Ilia picked sparingly. A full stomache would not be good for later. The tittering ladies at their feet mistook her lack of appetite for nervousness. Ilia _was_ nervous but not for the reasons they imagined. Robb looked dark and unhappy. Ocassionally, a wistful expression crossed his face when he toyed with the sleeve of her white dress. No doubt he was imagining another woman and another time.

The Umbers were drunk. That did not bode well. Sober, the Umber men were difficult to manage, drunk they resembled two large boars in heat. Ilia furrowed her brow and Robb followed her gaze.

"They're not behaving, but it _is _a celebration," the King gripped her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. "There's nothing wrong with smiling and laughing at your own wedding. You are a queen, not a prisoner, not anymore."

Ilia could not think of an adequate response to that statement. Fear flooded her sense and in an effort to quell his worries, Ilia pressed her lips to his. Kissing was a foreign experience because normally Ilia did not allow anyone that intimacy. Not even her brothers would kiss her on the lips. Her father or mother certainly didn't. The first kiss at the wedding in front of the crowd and the high septon and the gods was prim and proper. The second kiss was less so. The King pushed against her lips, pressing her for something… something different.

The crowd hollered, the Frey's loudest. Mortified, Ilia pulled away.

"I am _not_ Jeyne Westerling," Ilia whispered angrily, turning her head away.

"I have no doubt that you are _not_," the King muttered into his horn of ale.

Only Lady Catelyn heard their exchange. In a show of unexpected support, she reached for Ilia's hand. The bride held on to her mother by marriage gratefully, but couldn't bring herself to meet those Tully eyes. Embarassed and tipsy, Ilia rose to find Wendel or Colmar.

One hour until the signal would be heard. Wendel begged leave of a pretty girl he was dancing with. It might have been a whore but Ilia was too upset to care. Arwyn could be a whore now, that thought was sobering. A loose woman could be someone's sister, a boy could be a king, and a slave could be a queen. All things could be. Wendel held her tightly as they took a gentle, slow spin around the hearth.

"Are you well? Ilia? Your face is red."

"You saw," Ilia whispered, "I can't do that. I just can't. He's asking too much from me. I can't do all this. I can't be a queen. Please, Wendel, please I just want to forget all of this and ride away. I wish we could. I wish it so badly."

"Perhaps I can speak to him," Wendel sniffed, "but after. Remember, you have me. If anyone gives you trouble, anyone at all then…"

Wendel held two fingers between their bodies. "_Zik_." A bolt of electricity ran between his middle and forefinger and his look darkened. Then, he spun her gracefully and continued their dance.

"You've been practicing," Ilia was impressed.

"You're not the only one in this family with special talents, I've never let an opportunity go to waste and I don't plan on starting now."

Another spin. Ilia's white skirts, now trimmed with mud, billowed out around out and a few onlookers clapped. The King looked envious and sullen on his dias.

"Be kind," Wendel cautioned, "he has felt a woman's warmth and if I were to be honest, you have been less than warm lately. He wants what he left behind."

"Roslin said much the same about my _warmth,_ have I changed?"

"Maybe," Wendel shrugged, "you have walked one of the many paths of hell. The darkness has touched you, possibly changed you. But… a fool has hope and I am a fool. We were all once so young and full of dreams, so hopeful and ambitious. When were the hopes and dreams devoured by the ambition? I should have been a better brother. I saw you handed away, and I…I…"

Ilia was shocked. Would wonders never cease? Wendel, speaking from his heart. His gaze was distant, looked on some unseen beauty that only he could see.

"I did nothing." Wendel whispered. He spun her away, disgraced.

New hands grasped her.

"I have been waiting to speak with you."

Walder Rivers ran his hand up her side, the side not facing the King. Ilia felt worms and bugs and dirt coat her skin and her heart shriveled. A half hour until the game began. Or would it end?

"I have thought long and hard about the words you gave away," the bastard whispered in her ear. It tickled and Ilia's nostrils flared indignantly. He was holding her too close for it to be proper. "Not just the vows you said today, in front of the gods. The _other_ words. I forgive you, and I have found a way for you to be penitent."

"Oh, really?" Ilia asked breathlessly, "how might that be?"

Walder Rivers stopped their dance in the shadows, his tall frame hiding them from view. Ilia's heart beat erratically, for unromantic reasons. Around his shoudlers, she could see Colmar pushing and shoving his way across the crowded feast tent.

"You don't love him, I know that now," Walder Rivers brushed a stray hair behind her ear. "After tonight, you will not consummate the marriage until I have had my boon."

Colmar reached the hidden couple. His right hand opened into a palm and the word _feyr_ formed on his lips but there was suddenly no need. Walder Rivers vanished behind the same draped fabric that Wendel did. Colmar reached for her hand and she knelt down for his embrace. It was so nice and warm to feel his arms around her shoulders. Shamelessly, a few tears fell from her eyes.

"That was aggressive, too aggressive," Colmar admitted. "He's not even supposed to be here. He's supposed to be at the Bastard's feast across the way. What happened?"

Ilia shook her head. She shook her head and stood. Colmar was too young for these dark times. Innocence was a rare and treasured thing that shouldn't die before it's ready.

The celebration was interrupted near them as two snarling dogs fought for a small scrap of meat. The tumbling ball of ribs and fur knocked a few men to their feet and a tall Frey, Walder, dunked the two with his flagon of ale. The dogs howled and broke apart to lick their wounds. The brave one shook his wetness onto Lord Walder. Their Lord Father laughed his toothless laugh and Ilia winced. That dog would be meat in the kitchen tomorrow. King Robb had a brief, unsatisfying conversation with Lord Frey after that. The King was displeased but her father managed to keep his merry disposition.

With every minute that ticked past, the crowd grew thicker. Several more songs were sung, dances were danced, drinks were thrown back and entertainment appeared. A half hour left. Ilia returned to the dias when Robb stepped off to speak with his men and Ser Ryman. She was grateful. Ilia buried her head in her hands and begged someone for water. The vacated seats next to her looked on sorrowfully.

"To bed! To bed! To bed with them!"

Roslin went pasty white and Ilia's head shot up. Oh, thank the gods, they were harassing Roslin and Edmure Tully. Her brothers and some northern men were making mincemeat out of Roslin. The King raised a hand in approval and the crowed roared joyously.

"To bed! To bed! To bed with them!"

Thus, Edmure Tully was separated from his brethren and kin to be kept a hostage at the Crossing. When he woke, alert and aware of his drunken stupor the previous night, his doors and windows would be barred and Roslin would be gone.

"The Rains of Castamere" reached Ilia's ears. She painfully closed her eyes.

But it was wrong, all wrong.

Wendel was lost, somewhere in the crowd. He was supposed to be there, with her. Where was her brother's blue cloak in this sea of red and blue and grey? The musicians were armed but the soldiers had only chairs and tables and taken by surprise most men instantly fell. Lord Frey cackled with glee and clapped his hands.

Wendel was supposed to be here. Ilia was… oh no, Ilia was supposed to be by the waterfront! Wendel was waiting for her to arrive near the River and together they were… she lost track of time… she forgot the plan… she was too drunk… there were too large of a crowd she never would have gotten away…

Colmar was pulling at her arm. Ilia could hear words but her vision was swimming.

"We need to get out of here, we need to get out!"

Lady Catelyn savagely ripped Aegon Frey's head from his neck. There was blood and spears and screaming. Robb lay with a pike spouting out of his chest and Ilia mutely acknowledged someone calling her name.

"Lady… lady…"

A familiar hand with busy white knuckles reached for her. Ilia pushed away the body of a skinny man and knelt onto the ground near Lord Umber's face. The fist holding her was bloody and slashed and he was crudely stuck to a table. A clever Frey had taken the dinner knives and stapled Umber's calves and side stomach to a long bench.

"Drunk… drunk… so sorry," he reached for her sleeve and pulled her hand toward her heart.

"We don't have time for this!" Colmar was pulling at the opposite arm. There were shouts and screams from the Towers and a fire had begun somewhere because smoke began to assault her nose. A drum beat loudly to the footsteps of war and vengence. A wolf howled in the distance. The howl was cut viciously short.

"Listen, quiet now, listen," Greatjon spoke hoarsely and his chin quivered, "I don't know if I'll die and I don't know... if I'll live so nows as good a time to tell you... I knew your mother, yes, you know? Good... I knew her a long time and she knew me, if you understand my meaning... We knew each other… and, oh gods forgive I'm no good with this nonsense."

"Forget him, let's leave!"

"Annara, missed her family. She left but not before we… soon after she wed your father. I… Ilia, that name. I know that name. You are my blood, I know it. Same eyes, same hair. Same eyes… wrote a letter before she passed. Spoke of a lighthouse..."

"No time!" Wendel hoisted her over his shoulders and soon she was being bounced across a field. She closed her eyes, she couldn't look.

The last thing Ilia saw before the southern gate closed was a red pool of blood on grey stone. It looked like an eye. An everseeing eye that rippled in fury. She was being punished. She was being punished by the old gods. The gods of the North.


	21. Chapter 21: Fortuna

Chapter Twenty One: Fortuna

High in the tower of the Hand of the King an early morning meeting took place. The Hand was an early riser, often preferring to rise with the sun. Half the day was wasted if, like his second son, you lay in bed till noon eating grapes and drinking cider with giggling whores. His company was another nobleman who held many of the same virtues. Mace Tyrell sat with a straight back and turned his horn of dark mulled cider in his hands. A hard working lord, he was oft seen toiling over desk and parchment long before the rest of his household woke. Lord Tyrell sat, that particular morning, absentmindedly stroking the long bushy beard at his breast.

"Loras will persevere through this darkness," the Hand stated. "He is a knight, he knows his duty and duty alone will bring him back from the threshold."

Lord Tyrell inclined his head. "We do not determine when the Gods take us, only how we live our lives to their satisfaction."

"True enough," the Hand rapped his knuckles the piece of parchment center of his desk. "You are no doubt wondering why I asked you here on this _dreary_ morning. I will get right to the matter. We are both busy men managing the affairs of our families. We concern ourselves with our children and the legacy we both desire to leave behind. How is your eldest son lately?"

"Willas?" the cloudiness in Mace Tyrell's eyes lifted briefly, "Willas is content in Highgarden. He has increased the productivity of the land threefold since instituted as the Lord of Husbandry and Breeding. He takes his pleasure these days, with gentle but manly work. You know what occurred when he ran against the Red Viper," anger simmered behind the Lord's words. "I never trusted that there wasn't foul play that day. Never."

"Nor would I," the Hand agreed and raised his mug. Tywin Lannister drank only water. He would never risk clouding his judgment in front of a rival.

"I have received a letter from our friend and ally, Walder Frey."

"Hmph," Lord Tyrell raised two bushy eyebrows. "Lord Frey. I see."

"Our comrade has proposed an interesting arrangement. Ser Willas has… limited options in these—"

"You dare raise my ire?"

"Is there another way to put it delicately? I play no jokes, my Lord. I have never played at jokes."

Lord Tyrell sat back quietly but waved the Lion on. The clock on the wall was half past seven and he had work to attend to if he ever planned on leaving this damned capitol. Let the Hand speak his mind and Lord Tyrell, as the head of his house, would decide what might be beneficial.

"As it so happens, Lord Frey has a daughter he believes would be suitable to the Southern climate. I did not miss your mother's attempt at honoring the Stark girl but the King had other needs for her. As it is, we owe a great debt to the Lord of the Crossing for cutting the head off the Northern rebellion," Tywin Lannister raised his hand, "though it was dark treachery and the gods will punish him for it. The crown had no part in such evil deeds. Nonetheless, it is the King's desire to match two of his allies in the War of the Five Kings."

"The Red Wedding they call it," Lord Tyrell's eyes were drawn to a crow at the window.

"I don't give these things names," the Hand crossed to fetch the bird. "Lord Frey has a daughter who, at this moment, is approaching King's Landing."

"The _almost_ Queen of the North, a handsome prize," Lord Tyrell nodded, "but unsuitable to other Lords and their sons given her predicament."

"The King wants her controlled and placed in the hands of a loyal supporter. The false Queen has been stripped of her titles and rides South now. I have been assured of her loyalty by her father, but the question remains whether or not she will find a place in the Seven Kingdoms now that the Northern army has been subdued. Will Highgarden be that place?"

Lord Tyrell watched as the Hand of the King untied a fresh letter from the crow's leg and shooed the bird away. Black wings took flight against a red yellow rising sun. Willas was getting older. What better offer could he receive other than the hand of a Queen, even if it was a false one? The Stark princess fell through. This may be the last offer the Tyrell's would received and he wouldn't have gotten it at all if not for their military presence in King's Landing. Could he let this opportunity slip away?

"Was the marriage true?"

"Lord Frey claims it not so, the Stark King was butchered before the bedding. Witnesses have confirmed his story. He gives his assurances of virginity though I can offer none. The High septon can, of course, perform the necessary examination for your peace of mind."

"Do that," Mace Tyrell stood, "and do it quick. I agree to this matter and if Willas agrees, then aye. It will be done. It is the pleasure of the Tyrell family to be of service to the rightful King."

* * *

It was high noon when they first approached the Gate of the Gods. High noon meant that the heat of the day was at it's height and Colmar was sweating at his neck, under his arms, down his sides, and on the small of his back. Wiping the sweat from his brow he saw the capitol for the first time in his life. It was bigger than he imagined, and the walls were taller than both the Towers at the Crossing. Wendel pulled his horse next to him and patted the flank of the beast's sweating neck.

"We've arrived."

Ilia nodded blankly next to him. Echo trotted at the feet of her white mare. She looked beautiful. Beautiful but sad. The air around her reeked of melancholy and wretchedness, so much so that the men were afraid to approach her… so it fell to Colmar and Wendel to help her from her saddle day and night. Not that she needed help, but the Lady slid so carelessly from horseback, as if she didn't care whether she injured her legs or not. Not only was it depressing to be near Lady Ilia, it was also dangerous. Echo had grown fearsome from the wild and now neared a striking six feet in length, his muscles were rippling black water set against molten gold eyes. His roar shook the leaves in the tree and his presence frightened every horse except the old mare Ilia rode who was too aged to fear anything anymore. Colmar's mount had recently grown accustomed to the fearsome cat, and tolerated a nearby trot.

Colmar stroked the brown neck of his destrier and pulled the reigns to the left, leading the poor thing to a tree farther away from Lady Ilia. Echo was ordered by his sister, the first time she had spoken in days, to hide underneath the fabric of the wagon. Ilia climbed in after the cat and left her horse to trot behind the company. They were finally ready to meet the Lords and Ladies of Westeros as ambassadors of House Frey. A great honor, Lord Frey told them. For their great deeds and loyalty to the cause of their house. Wendel was not so disillusioned to believe Lord Walder's proclamation. Their family had broken the godly virtues of hospitality. They would be frowned up, cursed, and avoided in the capitol.

"Everything will be all right," Wendel had told him, "there will be other chances for glory."

But what if there weren't? What if the one thing they were meant to do on this Earth was save the King? And they failed. Colmar had failed, more precisely. It should have been his job to start the fire and let it build. The smoke would have been their cover. But, the rain had been too strong and he was scared and he couldn't get a big enough flame. Then, then, then, Lothar happened and Wendel tried so desperately but they couldn't save Robb Stark in time.

Ilia watched it happen. Colmar worried that it scarred her soul. She couldn't speak about it even when Colmar pushed her. Colmar thought it was maybe because his sister had loved the King. Wendel shook his head.

"Ilia didn't love him, she wanted what he had to offer."

"What did he have to offer?"

"Freedom," Wendel looked to the birds in the sky, "wings to cherish and take her higher. It was a child's dream we played at Colmar. We have other plots and plans to busy ourselves with now."

Colmar didn't understand Wendel and his ways. The defeat at the Red Wedding had hit his older brother hard. Waltyr, ever his brother's greatest admirer, was taken back at the sudden change.

"He's not funny anymore."

Wendel wasn't as funny, which was true. Ilia wasn't as loving. Colmar… perhaps he lost his innocence. The War had changed them all. Colmar kicked his horse to a trot as they past beneath the Gate and into the depths of the City. So many sights, so many sounds, so many shapes and sizes of people that it took all his will power to focus on controlling his steed and the ride ahead. Colmar was tempted to gaze all around him, open mouthed like a fool, at the wonders of the South and the extravagance of the capitol of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

"Slow yourself as we approach the Keep," Wendel ordered. _Ser_ Wendel now.

The guards at the gate questioned them when they arrived. Wendel responded calmly and eloquently gaining them access to the richest castle in the land. Colmar rode in with his head high and his mind bent on the task ahead. An unnamed stable boy took his horse, not even affording Colmar the chance to say goodbye. He tried not to look forlorn. Wendel was always telling him he was too attached to animals.

"Animals are for eating, they're not friends," Waltyr once told him. That didn't seem right to Colmar, who had trouble stomaching his ham at dinner. It didn't seem fair for all those sweet pigs to suffer.

"Ser Wendel, my lord, I come on behalf of my father Lord Frey, the lord of the Crossing…"

Wendel was talking to a slender man with dark hair, and a mockingbird sigil on his chest. He smiled easily and talked smoothly but Colmar's skin prickled whenever their eyes met. No, Colmar did not like this man. Lord Baelish offered Ilia his arm. She took the offer silently, inclining her head. To an ignorant observer his sister looked to be a shy young maiden, new to the capitol. To Colmar, she looked lifeless. Echo leapt from underneath the wagon, earning a startled jump and a few screams from the surrounding audience.

"I trust the beast is tame, my lady?"

"As tame as wild things can be…" Ilia patted her knee, ushering the cat to her side.

"I have instructed the staff not to unpack all your belongings," the Lord chose to ignore the cat and instead focused on the guests, "it looks like you will be journeying South much sooner than expected. Lord Tyrell wishes to send you with a significant force which will be departing in three days. The roads are dangerous these days and the force he send with you will protect not only your lives, but the life of his future daughter by marriage."

"So I understand that Lord Mace has accepted our father's offer?" Wendel asked as they mounted a set of a thousand stairs. The sun was high in the sky making it hard to see ahead of them without being blinded.

"The offer was endorsed by the King," Lord Baelish whispered, "of course he accepted. I wouldn't worry about acceptance here, after the service the Frey's have shown to King Joffrey. We are all greatly indebted to your House for your _bravery_."

Colmar swallowed heavily, despite how parched his mouth was and how chapped his lips. Bravery. The words made him feel stabbed in the gut.

"I hope you find your lodgings suitable, good Sers…"

With that, the mockingbird was gone. Colmar sighed aloud and the tension in Wendel's shoulders eased ever so lightly. Ilia wiped her hands on her dress to remove the trace of Lord Baelish's touch. Echo pushed past her and into the rooms, stalking to the window and cosily curled on top of a patch of sunlight. Ilia moved to follow him.

"Ilia, wait!"

The door slammed shut. Colmar could hear the sound of several locks being slid into place and when Wendel tried to jiggle the handle, it was so cold his skin burned and sheared. _Ser_ Wendel cursed like a sailor. Colmar frustratingly banged on the door.

"Stop, there's nothing we can do." Wendel pulled him away and into the adjacent bedroom. The windows had been left open and a small breeze came from the harbor, but it was not nearly enough relief from the heat.

"We should do something," Colmar protested. "We failed…"

"We did fail," Wendel admitted. He closed the wispy thin curtains to prevent unwanted eyes. "We failed miserably. We have failed a king, a queen, and ourselves. There is no reconciliation for this failure, no embrace I can give you. I do not think you want false words, Colmar."

Colmar shook his head. Wendel was right, he was always right. There was nothing to be said. Wendel removed his cloak and together, they pushed the bed against the wall. An empty space opened in the center of the room. Colmar stood opposite of his elder brother. Wendel's serious face was an intimidating sight.

"We were children, now we are more advanced, more mature. The next battle we fight, we will be alert and aware. The fight will come from within _us_ Colmar, not from outside. _Zik_!"

Across the span of Wendel's arm, a bolt of lightning emerged. The air crackled ominously, and Colmar imitated him. It was difficult for Colmar to sustain the flames for long. The fire was hot against his face and the room was already boiling. Plus, Colmar was afraid to set fire to anything inside and when they practiced outside Colmar was afraid to set fire to the trees, or the grass. Wendel assured him that Ilia would douse the flames should that ever occur. But Colmar wasn't so sure, she might have just let the fire go.

Wendel was already mastering his word. He could direct the lightning across archs and points as Colmar had seen illustrated in their mother's grimoire. Wendel would soon be the most feared knight in Westeros. His brother was adamant to keep their mysterious power secret.

"Prying eyes, prying hands, murderous plots…" he would mutter, and then return to practice.

The deceit of Ser Ryman had hurt Wendel most of all, Colmar thought. Wendel always wanted to be a recognized son, glorified as an heir to Lord Walder, even if he was a distant one. He idolized their knightly cousins and lordly brothers. The plot to murder Annara Farring's children had damaged Wendel's trust and faith. Most days, his older brother looked confused and sad, but occasionally a look of determination would sweep across his face. He had more to prove now than ever.

"Be patient, Colmar," Wendel told him, after a few unsuccessful attempts to summon the wall of fire. "It will come to you in time. I am very impressed with the progress you've shown."

"But we need it _now_," Colmar whined, not caring how childish he sounded.

"We need it when we need it, and you will deliver. Remember what it was like to fail?"

Colmar nodded his head.

"I remember too. Do not forget that feeling, it will drive us forward. I…" Wendel turned away, "I will never forget. I was supposed to be a knight and I just _handed her over_. Brother they call me. Then I handed her to that _bastard_. A complacent murderer, a scheming snake. What, oh what knight am I? What knight am I?"

Colmar didn't entirely understand what Wendel talked about, when he talked to himself. It sounded like private thoughts, so he never commented.

Dinnertime came and Colmar was ushered into his room by Wendel. The little Frey needed help with the buttons and ties of his formal attire. Wendel helped him patiently, occasionally muttering about honor and knighthood and treachery. It was all very overwhelming for Colmar and he wished Wendel could have schooled him in what to do at dinner instead of whispering to his self all the time. Colmar's hair was slicked back and parted with an oily substance that Wendel brought out of his saddlebags. His boots were shined with spit, as Wendel showed him, and Colmar was forced to chew mint while his brother dressed Waltyr.

The mint tasted pretty good. Waltyr swallowed his by accident and Wendel grew irritated. The next half hour was spent listening to Wendel lecture Waltyr on etiquette and manners. It was an old speech Colmar already knew. Lord Frey's speeches were very similar, but riddled with occasional slaps and cruel insults. At least Wendel never hit anyone… Hard. One time, Wendel smacked Colmar for losing a bag of gold coins in the river. Colmar forgave him because money was important. The slap hadn't been very harsh either, it was more of a graze. Colmar remembered how his brother's hand had slowed down as it neared, and the expression of self-loathing. The hand slowed down because Wendel didn't actually _want_ to hit him. Colmar knew that. It was just that the Frey's were always hitting each other, so it seemed natural at the time.

The dining room afforded to Mace Tyrell was decorated with a multitude of roses. The chair cushions had roses, the plates had roses, the candles were carved with roses. In fact, the only thing not inscribed with roses was Lord Tyrell himself. Instead, the lord wore a dark brown, bushy beard and greened leather. No roses and no flowers.

Dinner was surprisingly pleasant. The conversation was controlled by topics of farming, the upcoming winter, the likes and dislikes of traveling… boring, safe subjects that gradually gave way to deeper discussion. The war had been hard in the Riverlands. The true King would prevail. Stannis was bold and dangerous and not a friend of either houses.

Ilia was on time, but she was late because everyone else arrived early. At least, that's what everyone's stares implied. When she arrived, her face was blushing and red, from either anger or embarrassment. Nonetheless, she dropped a deep curtsy to Lord Tyrell and begged his pardons, owing her absence to travel weariness. Her voice was rich and charming, which made Colmar swoon in wonder. The Lord accepted her apologies and complimented her appearance. A boring, suitable reply.

Soon after, a note came for Lord Tyrell. The news was pleasing to him, and he ordered a toast to the union of Highgarden and the Crossing. Colmar liked that toast because everyone smiled when it was said, even Ilia.

Maybe things were getting better.


End file.
